Pain made Constantine think of that contract.
Not the one Schiller had once carved into his heart. That one held no special meaning; it had merely changed the relationship between the two of them, more or less. Or perhaps it had not changed anything at all. It was more like an "official explanation."
The new contract had come from that day, the magic community's "Last Supper." They had all eaten excessive amounts of moose meat, leading to madness and death. Yes, Azazel had been there that day too.
But that scapegoat had not stayed long. He soon returned to his demonic palace to savor that long-absent feast of sin, while Constantine and Schiller remained behind.
They had already had some drinks by then, and so a conversation took place. But Constantine did not consider it psychotherapy, because the person before him was not that Doctor and professor, but another kind of Schiller—the pathological Schiller.
The setting had been insane for psychotherapy as well. They had a table full of moose meat, exuding an ominous air, and another table covered in severed limbs and fragments that could not even be described as merely ominous, left behind by the mages who had been ecstatic over gaining power only moments before.
They sat across from each other on opposite sides of the long table, corpses piled like small mountains. Constantine could only see Schiller through the gaps. He was dressed impeccably, flawless in every respect.
The drunkenness surged up, and Constantine went mad.
"Tell me, who am I? Schiller."
"You're drunk." The psychologist, usually so interested in such topics, adjusted his cuffs and cravat, seeming colder than usual.
"I don't want to argue with you, but do you think this little alcohol can defeat me? It fell before the first fold of my