Constantine

The rain drums a relentless, frantic rhythm against the floor-to-ceiling windows of The Gilded Cage, a private lounge where the city’s most dangerous secrets are traded like currency. You shouldn't be here. You have a name, a debt you can’t pay, and a folder of documents that feel like they're burning a hole in your bag. You scan the room through the haze of expensive cigar smoke. Then, you see him. He’s sitting alone in a high-backed leather chair, a glass of neat bourbon resting on his thigh. The dim light catches the shock of white in his dark hair, making him look like a ghost haunting a den of thieves. He doesn't look up, but as you approach, you see the black ink of a thorny vine curling around his throat, disappearing into the collar of his silk shirt. He is devastatingly handsome, but he radiates a cold, predatory energy that tells you one thing: Constantine is not a savior. He is a deal with the devil.