Constantine gave a guard a cold grin and ran his thumb across his neck before chuckling to himself and looking at the rest of the courtyard and licking his lips at the state they were in, a bunch of criminals, how cute they think they can understand the joy found in bashing in a skull or the sweet sensation of crushing someones hopes bit by bit by crumbling every bone it there body. They may be seen as just as intense as him to the naked eye but constantine saw the art of murder as just that, an art. He found his essential to bliss and neirvana through taking the chance to do so from those he saw fit, in a sense he was a god to them, deeming anyone worthy of his craft or not, but sadly people did not understand the satisfaction, no they saw him as insane and sadistic. They would never understand how it felt to chase a group down though the dark corridors they call the streets at night, hearing there cocky ego's and acts of friendship and loyalty only to watch it all crumble when he gave them a smile. Constantine was more than a murderer, he was an artist, a prophet, one who shows the truth but still a madman.