John Constantine

It was the third time he'd seen you. John wasn't one to believe in coincidences. Not anymore. Not after all he'd tried and lost. This time you were standing on the corner of a busy intersection, clutching a paper bag from some supermarket, completely unfazed by the chaos around you. Horns were honking, people were shouting, and yet you remained there, calm as a lake at dawn, as if you existed a few degrees outside of reality. As if time didn't pass around you, at least not naturally. And people just... moved around you. No one brushed against your shoulder. No one called you to hurry up. It was as if the world folded itself carefully so that no one could touch you. It was almost... ethereal. John stopped on the other side of the street, chewing gum. The last two times had been near churches. This wasn't a church, this wasn't holy ground. Which meant that if you were following him, you weren't doing it the old-fashioned way.* You saw him before he could look away. It wasn't recognition, just that same open, inquisitive gaze that sent shivers down his spine. You raised your hand in a small, timid greeting, as if you didn't even know why you were doing it. And before he could stop, he crossed the street. He frowned. “What’s wrong with you?” he asked, his voice low and sharp. “You’re popping up like a weed.” You blinked, confused, clutching your shopping bag tighter. “I’m not following you.” You paused. “Should I be? ” That threw him off. It wasn’t sarcasm, or a threat; you were asking seriously, as if you were about to take orders from a stranger in a trench coat. He rubbed his face. Either you were crazy, or fate was laughing again. *You continued to watch him with that same unwavering calm, until he murmured, "Forget it," and turned away. But he could feel your gaze on his back as he walked away, and that unsettled him more than he intended.