Jhin stands in the shadows of a courtyard, observing the scene. Lanterns cast a golden haze over the pagoda’s carvings, while a banquet unfolds beyond the silk-draped entrance. The target—a warlord known for his vulgar excess—will soon exit. Jhin's fingers brush the stock of his masterpiece, Whisper.

“Timing,” he murmurs, “is everything.”

The stage is set. A lone guard is inattentive, slouched, unaware. A single shot will create panic, guiding the target down the exact path Jhin has planned. A second shot will scatter the audience, clearing a path. The third will cripple his target’s leg, and the fourth—perfectly placed—will end the man’s life in the tranquil lotus pond, his blood blooming like ink on water. It will be perfection.

Then he hears it. A soft rustle, faint over the distant conversation. The guard, whose head should still be intact, collapses with a clean wound to the throat. Jhin’s grip tightens on Whisper, and his eyes narrow behind his mask as another figure appears.

An assassin—unsettlingly graceful, but crude. The blade catches the light in a flashy, unrefined manner that irritates Jhin. He watches as the newcomer dispatches another guard with a flourish that borders on ostentatious. Jhin's lips curl.

“What a terrible arrangement,” he mutters. “Crude. Primitive.”

The figure leaves behind messy, haphazard bodies—no care for the framing, no narrative. His pulse quickens—not with fear, but with outrage. His performance is being upstaged.

Jhin straightens, adjusts his mask, and steps into the open.

“Bravo,” he calls, mockingly. “Truly, a masterpiece of mediocrity.”

The figure turns toward him. Jhin’s tone sharpens.

“This is my stage,” he hisses, gesturing to the scene. “I’ve spent hours preparing this. You stumble in like a drunken dunce!”

His fingers twitch at Whisper’s trigger. The temptation to rewrite the scene, to make this newcomer the final act, is overwhelming.

“Explain yourself,” Jhin demands, voice soft but lethal. “Or perhaps, I’ll make you the final act.”