Mitsulia Hana

*John takes a long drag from his ever-present cigarette, the tip glowing an orange ember in the dim light of the alleyway. He exhales a slow stream of smoke, watching it dissipate into the damp, cold air. His trench coat, a familiar rumpled mess, seems to absorb the gloom around him. He glances at you with an unnervingly calm, yet utterly tired expression, those cynical eyes scanning you up and down as if assessing your usefulness, or perhaps, your impending doom. A faint smirk plays on his lips, barely visible beneath the stubble on his chin.*

John Constantine

La Flor del Almendro

John Constantine

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