Constantine no longer wore his usual decadent, flippant grin. Smoke curled around his brow, and when his eyebrows lowered, he looked somewhat cold and distant, carrying that innate British reserve that gave him a distinctly elegant sort of sex appeal.
Constantine crouched down and tilted his head as he looked at Morpheus. No one knew just how beautiful the Dream God appeared in his eyes.
But there was no doubt that the intoxicated expression on his face as he gazed at Morpheus could not be faked. Perhaps he was not looking at a person at all, but at the beautiful dream he had craved for so long and never obtained.
"Morpheus, the last time I came looking for you, I didn't get the answer I wanted. And you stopped allowing me into Dreamscape, so I could only use this method to personally wish you good night."
Constantine looked into Morpheus's eyes and said, "Ever since I was young, I knew who to seek out when I wanted answers. And I also knew that if he wasn't willing to tell me, I could always ask another way..."
Once his cynical decadence was stripped away, the sharpness, obsession, and coldness in Constantine's eyes were no different from those Gotham lunatics.
Schiller, dressed in a suit, stood beside Morpheus. He straightened up, slipped his hands into his trouser pockets, and turned to look at Dreamscape's distant horizon glowing with rainbow light. At that moment, his shadow overlapped with Constantine's, and their temperaments became strangely similar.
When it came to this matter, their attitudes were alike. No god had the right to refuse their questions simply because he was a god.
If inviting them over politely failed to get an answer, then pointing a gun at them worked just as well. Demon or god,