That night, Gotham's rain was exceptionally cold, carrying a desolation beyond the chill that made people shiver from head to toe.
A figure staggered out of a pitch-black alley, braced himself against the wall, and began vomiting violently. Then he started coughing hard, muttering a pile of incoherent nonsense. By the time he finally made it to a set of steps, the streetlamp revealed Constantine's haggard face.
He hiccupped and leaned weakly against the icy wall. A dreadful stench wafted from him. Judging by the two shoeprints on his trench coat, he had probably been kicked out because he had no money left to keep smoking weed.
But his cravings were still acting up. His hand trembled so badly as he lit an ordinary cigarette that he could not even strike a match properly. After several attempts, he had done nothing but waste a few matches. Constantine sighed and tucked the cigarette back into his pocket.
Suddenly, he saw a point of flame appear from the other side of the wall, extending toward him.
Constantine's eyes immediately lit up. He quickly pulled out his cigarette, leaned over, and used the flame to light it. He took a satisfying drag, exhaled a cloud of smoke, and said, "Thanks, mate."
But the next second, he was so startled he nearly jumped off the ground, because the face on the other side of the wall belonged to Bruce wearing Joker makeup.
"What the hell are you doing?!" Constantine cried. "If I hadn't activated spirit vision, I would've thought you were that lunatic!... Wait, you're not him, are you?"
Activating spirit vision again, Constantine inspected Bruce's soul from top to bottom. Only then did he breathe a sigh of relief. "Oh, thank God, you're not him... Wait, why are you wearing that makeup? Is