Constantine had a bad habit. Regardless of whether they were familiar with each other or not, as soon as someone died, she would forget the person's face. It was as if his form, face, body, and voice were being washed away by water. His face, body, and voice … all of them would disappear from her memory.
She remembered the Virgin Mary because she remembered the coolness of her bare feet when she stepped on the floor, the heaviness of her coat when she grabbed it, and the sound it made when she threw it at the man.
Yes, there was indeed a Virgin Mary on his bare (bracketed) arm.
Just when she was slightly distracted, the makeup chair was suddenly kicked hard, and it hit her leg.
The young man exerted all his strength, as though he were trying to break her calf and knee. Constantinet felt the sudden pain, but before she could pull the trigger, a shadow had already attacked her and cut her wrist with a knife-hand.
The pistol flew out of her hand and landed a few steps away from her. It was next to the Scorpion submachine gun that was kicked away earlier. It was as if they were going to touch each other through the carpet.
Unlike him, Constantine did not look at the spear again.
Sitting in her position as a woman meant that she was faster, more vicious, more merciless, and more difficult to kill than her male counterparts. She had long trained to fight as an instinct.
As soon as the gun left her hand, Constantine turned around and took two steps forward, using her body to block his way to snatch the gun back.
In the quiet and narrow dressing room, the two were so close to each other that they could smell each other's breath.
… This child must be lying to distract her. He must have seen the Virgin Mary when he was killing someone.
Constantine thought contentedly.
His bare upper body (not to be looked at in brackets) twisted. His clean and long muscles contracted and twisted under his sweaty skin. A fist sank deep into Constantine's abdomen. It was heavy and fast.
Constantine snorted slightly through his nose, but his feet did not move.
In her life, she had been assassinated, assassinated, and attacked by force countless times. She did not know when it started, but she realized that the more ruthless, heavy, and close the attack was, the more she could … enter the zone.
She liked pain.
The pain was like electricity, clashing and climbing in her veins, causing her nerves to buzz like the strings of a piano, making her body tremble with excitement.
Before he could retract his fist, Constantine opened his arms.
She was half a head taller than him and had slender limbs. She easily pulled him into her arms. She pressed one hand to the back of his head and the other quickly slid down to grab the side of his belt.
On the fingers on the inside of the belt, a small piece of skin above the fingernail was pressed against the darkness and warmth.
With a sudden tug on her belt, she grabbed his hair with her other hand and pulled him down, making him bend down like a tango. She pulled the lad quickly to the ground. As his body fell, Constantine could not help but sing a song from his throat.
The youth smashed into the ground with a dull thud.
If you love me, don't let go. Hold on, hold on to me …
As Constantine sang, she did not turn her head. Instead, she grabbed the leg of the makeup chair and swung it in the air. The chair flew over the dressing table. Puffs of pale white powder, light red perfume, and golden eyeshadow powder splashed into the air and the light. She swung it heavily on the wound on his thigh.
The lad could not suppress his scream of pain, and it echoed in the small dressing room.
When she saw him curling up unconsciously and trying to roll away, Constantine took a step forward and straddled him with the makeup chair.
He also realized that something was wrong. He immediately stood up and punched her calf.
He looked like a lad who had not finished puberty, but his fist was as hard as iron. Constantine's singing changed its pitch.
Her leg was in so much pain that she could not stand. As soon as she fell to the ground, she sat up on her knees and raised the chair high to smash his head.
The lad struggled to turn his body, and his head narrowly avoided the chair. The chair smashed into his ear with a "bang".
His reflexes were extremely fast, and he grabbed the leg of the chair with a backhand. They stared into each other's eyes, and did not let go for even a breath; the strength of the two men clung to each other on the chair, and they were equally matched.
"Hold on, hold on to me. I'm a little unsteady …"
Constantine stretched her left arm, and her fingertips reached for the clothes rack on the other side of the dressing room. Without looking, she grabbed the first silk bathrobe that her fingertips touched and pulled it off. Her right hand let go of the chair, and she covered the lad's eyes and face with the silk bathrobe.
She felt a little lost.
The chair hit her waist. Constantine groaned and stopped singing. However, her hands were still like nails, firmly nailing the bathrobe to the ground and pressing down on the person underneath.
Perhaps the lad realized that hitting Constantine had no effect on her, so he threw the chair away. Even though he could not see or breathe, he still reached out with his hands.
His body was thin, but his hands were unexpectedly large.
He closed his fingers around Constantine's neck. His fingers were tight and cold, and they dug deep into her windpipe and blood vessels.
For a moment, both of them exerted all their strength, trying to crush each other's breath. The wound on his thigh opened up again, and the gurgling, warm blood soaked Constantine's legs and her nightgown.
He was far more difficult to deal with than Constantine had expected. She was the first to break down. She let go of the bathrobe, raised her hand in agony, and took off an earring. She fumbled with it, and with a jerk, the earring needle pierced through the cloth and into the wound on his thigh.
The lad groaned like a wounded animal, and his hands loosened a little.
Constantine seized the opportunity and stood up hurriedly. She stumbled a little and threw herself in the direction of the gun. The lad pressed forward from behind, grabbed her leg, and pulled her to the ground.
"Where are your subordinates?" he asked hoarsely. "It's been so long. Why haven't they come to save you?"
As the two of them panted, rolled, and fought, Constantine could not help but laugh.
"Black ink?" She threw a punch at the lad and said while panting, "Why didn't you think of a more ordinary excuse?"
He hurriedly dodged. His black hair fluttered, and he fell again. He paused for his next attack.
"It's true."
Constantine paused as well. "Is it?" The smile on her face had not disappeared.
"That's why I blew half of the second carriage down." He was obviously burdened by his injury, and he probably had no choice but to talk to stall for time. Blood had long soaked the clothes on his legs, and the suppressed gasps between his words could be heard clearly.
In the depths of her dark and damp mind, waves of drunkenness were still beating. Constantine could not help but laugh. She licked her broken lips and said in a low voice, "It's not shocking enough the second time."
The lad opened his mouth, and just as he was about to speak, he suddenly stopped.
Constantine tilted her head and looked at his face almost tenderly. She was not distracted by his performance at all. She had already locked on to the location of the Scorpion submachine gun from the corner of her eye.
He was really brave. He simply turned his eyes away from her. His neck was exposed under the light of the makeup lamp, and it looked clean and fragile.
Even her subordinates were usually reluctant to turn their backs to her. It was like the survival instinct of an animal.
"Just now, you …" The lad did not seem to notice that her hand was gradually sliding towards the gun. He just stared at the door and murmured, "Didn't you lock the door?"
Constantine paused.
The warm and boiling feeling of drunkenness dripped from her skin, her cheeks, and her blood. She sat on the floor and looked at the lad in front of her. She gradually became cold and stiff like a statue.
He was not trying to distract her. She saw it from the corner of her eye.
The door of the dressing room slid open soundlessly, and a black crack appeared between the door and the wall. She knew that the lights in the club had been turned off, but she still felt that the narrow black crack was too dark.
Shouldn't there be night lights, emergency lights, and moonlight outside the corridor window? But at this moment, there seemed to be a long line of thick ink stuck in the crack of the door, holding her breath.
The most important thing was that she had locked the door from the inside.
I like to write/read about the dark and twisted personalities of perverts. I don't know if I have written it well enough … Yuumaru Yukinori is already a pervert without a filter in his head, and Constantine is an even bigger pervert. I heard the song she sang. It's called 'Unsteady'. When they were fighting, I stood at the door and searched for it with a song software.
Yes, the black noodle at the door is me.
(End of this chapter)
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