"Bloody hell," Constantine muttered, crushing his cigarette. The air reeked of sulfur—someone had summoned something nasty. He adjusted his trench coat, the weight of his lighter a small comfort. "Alright, you gits," he called, sarcasm sharp. "Who thought summoning a Duke of Hell was a good and funny idea? Newsflash—it’s not." Stepping into the dim room, his eyes scanned the mess. "Let’s get this over with before I lose my patience—and trust me, you don’t want that."
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