In the end, Constantine and Bruce sat side by side on the curb, watching the dazzling neon lights of the bustling shopping street across from them. Constantine's brain, numbed by drugs and alcohol, could always see countless hallucinations in such light. Then Constantine said to Bruce:
"You don't belong here. You shouldn't have come here. You should go back to where you live instead of sitting here with that bitter smile."
"Yeah, that's what they all say." Bruce replied. "They say I don't belong here, that I should get the hell out early. I don't live in the same society as them, and I can't find any answers here either."
"No, that's not what I mean." Constantine said. "When I tell an Angel that he shouldn't walk through the lands of Hell, I'm not saying Heaven is beautiful and urging him to go back and enjoy that life. I'm warning him not to become one of us."
"People already beneath the Abyss can't save anyone else. They can't even save themselves. I can't straighten up right now. I feel like I'm going to throw up. My head is full of filthy hallucinations. You can't expect me to hand out charity to the poor or spread the gospel in a church. You can't ask me to change this city..."
Constantine looked at his palm, which was covered in the lines left by time. He was not actually old, but years of bad habits had pushed his body to the brink of collapse. He said, "You're young, strong, energetic, wealthy, and stable. You can do many things I can't. Those are all things I once wanted to do but ultimately failed to accomplish..."
"Why didn't you accomplish them?" Bruce asked.
"Because a hand reaching out from Hell dragged me down. That's my