He's sixteen. He'd wished for a chance to look good in front of the girl he likes, a chance to get back at the bullies who torment him. He's sick of the whole world looking right through him.
So he'd dabbled in magic, found a goal: To be like John Constantine.
Now his hands are fusing with the cursed amphora he'd been sold and the freed demon is laughing as it's sucking his life away.
There's a snap. Laughter. It's over suddenly.
A hand settles on his shoulder. He smells cigarette smoke.
"Don't be like me, lad. Never ends well."