Warhammer 40k : John The Inquisitor

"Mr. Philip, Mr. John is here," a voice announces from outside.

Philip raises an eyebrow, his interest piqued. "Let him in."

The door slides open, and in walks John, a man with an aura that screams trouble wrapped in mystery. At his side is a woman Philip knows all too well—Silver Snake, a dazzling enigma in her own right. Philip nods politely. "Miss Silver Snake, what a surprise. And you've brought a companion. How…unexpected."

Silver Snake flashes her trademark smile. "Life's full of surprises, Mr. Philip."

"Indeed," Philip replies. "Though I'd have prepared a more fitting welcome if I'd known you were coming."

John chuckles and surveys the lavish room. "This is perfect. Informal suits us just fine."

Philip waves off his "companions" with a charming smile. "Ladies, let's catch up later. I have some business to attend to."

The women leave, their heels clicking as they disappear into the corridor. Philip gestures toward the sofa. "Sit, Mr. John. Let's hear what brings you to my door."

John settles in, his posture relaxed but his eyes razor-sharp. "A warning," he says, as if delivering a weather report. "The Scarlet Plant was hit. It's gone."

Philip's smile falters for a split second—a blink-and-you-miss-it moment of surprise. He quickly regains his composure. "Interesting. And you're telling me this because…?"

John's grin widens. "Because certain…colleagues of mine think you were involved."

"Ridiculous," Philip scoffs.

"I know that," John says. "But convincing my less-than-rational associates is another matter. They're convinced you and Mal Hammer teamed up to take us down."

Philip leans back, his fingers tapping the sofa's armrest in measured rhythm. "And what do you suggest, Mr. John? How do we resolve this misunderstanding?"

"Fight back," John says simply, his tone light but his words heavy. "I'm offering you and Mal a chance to end this war once and for all."

Philip studies John, suspicion clouding his usually confident gaze. "You want us to attack your organization? Eliminate its leaders? That…doesn't sound like the strategy of someone invested in its success."

John's smile turns predatory. "Smart as ever, Mr. Philip. Let me make it simple: I don't need the Pious Society to live. In fact, I'd prefer it dead. They're heretics, worshipping false gods and plotting treason against the Imperium. I'm here to burn them out, root and stem. And you, my friend, get to help me light the match."

Philip's fingers stop tapping. The room grows heavy with unspoken tension. Finally, he speaks. "You're serious."

"Deadly," John replies, his smile fading. "I am John Constantine, an Inquisitor of the Emperor's Holy Ordos. I have the authority to purge this hive of heresy—by any means necessary."

Philip stares at him, searching his face for any sign of deceit. He finds none. Slowly, he nods. "You have my support, Inquisitor. The Syndicate will stand with the Golden Throne."

John's smile returns, warm and satisfied. "A wise choice. Together, we'll bring order to this chaos—and ensure you're well compensated for your loyalty."

The two men shake hands, sealing their uneasy alliance. Outside the club, Silver Snake twirls a wine glass in her hand, her gaze fixed on the shimmering liquid within. "So, did the pretty boy join our little crusade?" she asks, her tone dripping with amusement.

John leans against the bar, taking the glass from her and sipping it thoughtfully. "Oh, he's in," he says with a grin. "And now, we're one step closer to cleaning house."

She chuckles, slipping off her chair and looping her arm through his. "Well then, shall we toast to a job well done?"

The pair strides toward the exit, their laughter cutting through the dim hum of the club. Outside, a sleek black car awaits, its surface gleaming like polished obsidian. A man leans casually against the door, his leather jacket catching the faint glow of streetlights. "Good evening, John," the man says. "Miss Silver Snake."

***

Dim lights flickered overhead, like tired candles struggling against an endless fog. The underground parking lot, a cavernous concrete void, sat in suffocating silence. Rows of cars, dulled by dust and neglect, stretched out like a forgotten galaxy of extinguished stars. The air was thick, expectant, as if the shadows themselves were holding their breath.

Then, the silence cracked. A faint rustling—the unmistakable sound of tires on gritty concrete—seeped into the stillness. The noise grew louder, each turn of the wheels scraping against the oppressive quiet like a defiant whisper. From the spiral ramp, twin beams of light pierced the gloom, slicing through shadows and flooding the parking lot with a harsh glow. A sleek black car descended, its engine a low growl reverberating through the emptiness. It glided to a stop dead center, a solitary sentinel in this graveyard of machines.

The car door opened with a smooth hiss, and a boot emerged—scuffed leather, with a silver patch catching the dim light. John Constantine climbed out, one hand on the car roof as he stretched to his full height. From the driver's seat, Marshall followed, his posture tense, adjusting the grip on his laser pistol like a man always ready for trouble. Marshall was nothing if not thorough. "Come on, Jenny," John said, extending a hand. His voice carried an easy charm, a tone that suggested he could talk his way out of almost anything. Jenny stepped out with feline grace, her silver hair catching the dim light. John adjusted his coat lapels, casting a wry glance around the parking lot. "Cozy, isn't it?"

Before Jenny could respond, footsteps echoed from between the parked cars—steady, deliberate, and unhurried. Emerging from the shadows was a man in a high-collared, military-style coat. His face was carved from granite, his expression colder than a midwinter night. Flanking him were several heavily armed individuals, their weapons held with the ease of seasoned professionals. The group spread out, surrounding John's car like a pack of wolves sizing up their prey.

The leader stopped a few paces from John, his bulletproof breastplate gleaming faintly under the flickering lights. His gun belt, slung across his chest, spoke of a man who preferred action over words. "A parking lot?" John's voice carried a note of incredulous humor. "Really? Could you be any more cliché?"

The man's expression didn't waver. "It's secure. No one's going to interrupt us here."

"I'll give you that," John conceded, spreading his hands in mock surrender. "Grand Arbitrator Scheer, I presume? First time meeting face-to-face, but your reputation precedes you."

Scheer's gaze was as warm as a frozen blade. "Before we proceed, I need to confirm your identity, John Constantine."

"Oh, come on," John said, glancing at Marshall for backup. "Didn't he vouch for me?"

"He did," Scheer replied flatly, "but I don't take people's word at face value. If you're lying, I'll be digging a hole tonight."

John raised an eyebrow, his sharp ears catching the soft clicks of safety fuses disengaging among Scheer's entourage. He let out a low whistle, impressed despite himself. "Fine," he said, raising his wrist. A tiny device flickered to life, its light cutting through the gloom. "Bryan, Johnson, are you there?"

Two voices answered in unison. "Always, Inquisitor."