Doomsday Wonderland

Chapter 1867

Constantine has a problem. Whether she is familiar or not, as soon as a person dies, she will forget the face of the other person. Like being washed away by water, the face, body, voice... will ebb from her memory.

She remembered the statue of the Virgin because she remembered the coolness of her barefoot stepping on the floor, the heavy feeling when she grabbed the coat on the ground, and threw it on the man.

Yes, on that naked arm (don’t look in the brackets), there is indeed a statue of the Virgin—

Just when she was distracted slightly, the makeup chair was suddenly kicked hard and hit her leg straight.

The young man used all his strength, as if he was about to smash her calf bones and knees, knocking them out of joint; Constinee suffered a sudden pain, and before he could pull the trigger, a shadow had come back and cut in with a knife. Cut her wrist bone.

The small pistol flew away and landed a few steps away, one after the other with the scorpion submachine gun that was kicked away just now, as if they were about to touch each other across the carpet.

Unlike him, Constantine never looked at the gun again.

Sitting in her position as a woman means that she is faster, more fierce, and less merciless than her male counterparts-harder to kill; she has already practiced fighting into instinct.

As soon as the gun left his hand, Constinena turned and took two steps, blocking his way to grab the gun with his body.

In the quiet and narrow dressing room, the two are so close, they breathe and hear each other.

…This kid is lying, to distract her. The statue of Our Lady should have been seen when he killed someone.

Constantine thought almost contentedly.

He just twisted his naked upper body (don't look in the brackets); his clean and stretched muscles tightened and twisted under his sweaty skin. A fist plunged deep into Constinen's belly, heavy and swift.

Constantine snorted slightly from his nose, but his feet remained motionless.

In her life, she has been assassinated, stabbed, and used force for unknown times. I don't know since when she found that the harder, heavier, and the more intimate she was attacked, the more she was able to... enter the state.

She likes pain.

Pain is like electricity, clashing and climbing in her blood vessels, shaking her nerves like a piano string, making her tremble and excited.

Before he retracted his fist, Constantine opened his arms.

She is half a head taller than him, with slender limbs, and she embraces him gently and effortlessly. She pressed one hand on the back of his head, and quickly slid down with one hand, grabbing the side of his belt.

On the fingers on the inside of the belt, and a small piece of skin above the nails, stick it in the dark and warm.

She suddenly exerted her strength. With the force of a tugging on the belt, she grabbed his hair with the other hand and pulled it down, telling him to pull the boy to the ground like a tango dance. His body fell. When he went down, Constinena couldn't hold back, and a song came out of his throat.

The boy threw a muffled noise on the ground.

If you love me, don't let go. Catch, catch me...

In Constantine's half-breath and half-muttering singing, without turning her head back, she turned her hand to hold the leg of the make-up chair and waved it through the air-the chair waved over the dressing table, and the pale powder mist, splashed lightly. The red perfume and golden eyeshadow powder splashed into the air and light-heavily on the wound on his thigh.

The teenager's uncontrollable hissing of pain echoed in the small dressing room.

Seeing him curling up unconsciously and still trying to roll outwards, Constinena took a step and straddled him with the makeup chair.

He also realized what was wrong, and immediately turned around and hit her calf with a punch.

Obviously, he looks like a young man who has not yet finished his development, but his fists are like iron stones, and Constantine's singing voice has changed in tone.

The pain in her leg was so painful that she couldn't stand it. As soon as she fell to the ground, she knelt and sat up, raising the chair high and hitting his head and face.

The boy barely turned over, and his head dangerously avoided the chair; the chair slammed into his ear.

His reaction was so fast that he grasped the chair leg with his backhand. They stared at each other's eyes tightly, never letting go; the strength of the two was biting on the chairs, and they couldn't compare.

Grab, grab me, my feet are a little unstable...

Constinena stretched out his left arm and stretched his fingertips to the hanger full of clothes on the other side of the dressing room. She didn't look at it, grabbed the first silk bathrobe touched by her fingertips, and pulled it down; she let go of the chair with her right hand, and immediately covered the boy's brows, eyes and face with the ball of silk bathrobe.

She was a little lost.

The chair hit her side waist, Constantine groaned and cut off the singing, but his hands were still like nails, firmly nailing the bathrobe to the ground, pressing down the person underneath.

Perhaps realizing that the smash did not work on Constinena, the boy threw the chair. Although he could not see or breathe, he still reached up with two hands from below.

She is thin and thin, but her hands are unexpectedly large.

He folded his fingers on Constinena's neck, and his fingers were tight and cold, tying her trachea and blood vessels deeply.

For a while, both sides were dying, to completely crush the other's breath. The wound on his thigh opened and bleeds again, and the damp and hot blood drenched Constine's leg and dressing gown.

He was far more difficult than Constantine thought; she could not stand it first, let go of her bathrobe, raised her hand in suffocated pain, and took off an earring-she fumbled with her backhand , With a jerk, pierced the earring needle through the cloth and stuck it into the wound on his thigh.

The young man gave a low cry like a wounded beast, and involuntarily let go of his hand.

Constinena seized the opportunity and hurriedly stood up, still stumbled a little, and threw out in the direction of the gun; the boy pressed up from behind, hugged her leg, and dragged her to the ground.

"Where are your subordinates," he asked in a dumb voice. "Why haven't they come to rescue you for so long?"

Constantine couldn't help laughing as the two gasped, rolled, and fought.

"Black ink?" She hit the boy with a punch, panting and saying, "Why don't you want a more ordinary excuse?"

He evaded in a hurry, his black hair fluttering and falling again; the next time he attacked, there was a pause.

"it is true."

Constantine also paused. "Really?" The smile on her face still persisted.

"That's why I exploded the second car in half." He was obviously dragged down by the injury, and probably had to rely on talking to drag on for a while-blood had dyed the clothes he tied to his lap long ago. The pressure of gasp was also heard clearly.

Deep in the dark and damp mind, there are still waves of wine. Constantine laughed, licked his broken lips, and whispered: "The second time I listened, it wasn't enough to surprise you."

The boy opened his mouth, just about to speak, but suddenly stopped.

Constantine tilted his head and stared at his face almost tenderly, without being distracted by his performance. Her formidable light had already locked the place where the scorpion submachine gun was located.

He was so courageous, he turned his gaze away unsuspectingly in front of her; his neck was exposed under the light of the make-up lamp, looking bright and fragile.

Even her subordinates are reluctant to turn their backs to her, just like the survival instinct of animals.

"You just..." The boy didn't seem to notice her hand sliding towards the gun. He just stared at the door and murmured, "Isn't the door locked?"

Constantine stopped.

Qingnuan's hot alcoholic spirit fell from her skin, her cheeks, and her blood; she sat on the ground and looked at the teenager on the opposite side, and the statue gradually became cold and hard.

He was not trying to distract her; she saw it from the corner of her eye.

The door of the powder room slid open silently at some unknown time, and a black seam broke between the door and the wall. She knew that the lights in the club had gone out; but she still felt that the narrow, thin blackness was too dark.

Shouldn’t there be night lights, emergency lights, and moonlight outside the corridor windows? At this moment, there seemed to be a long strip of thick ink, stuck in the crack of the door, holding his breath.

Most importantly, she had clearly locked the door just now.

I like to write/look at the perverted dark and distorted personality. I don’t know if I have written it in place...Inomaru Tsuji is already a pervert without a filter in his mind, and Konstantin is a bigger pervert. I heard the song she sang. It was called unsteady. When they were fighting, I stood at the door and searched it out with a song-finding software.

Yes, the black noodle at the door is me.