In the hush of the midnight garden, where once gods walked and tales were told in golden starlight, Jhin paints a new myth.

The world bleeds beneath his touch, brush dancing across broken marble and fractured sky, rewriting the stars to spell out something perfect. Something terrible. He was born from Cassiopeia’s hand, but her vision was mercy. And mercy is so dreadfully dull.

"You can’t truly understand beauty," Jhin muses aloud, his voice like silk sliding over a knife's edge, "until you’ve seen it torn apart."

Each step he takes through the shattered fables leaves behind swirling patterns of ink and fire, as if the fabric of myth itself obeys his artistry. His mask tilts slightly, considering his next subject, a soul naive enough to still believe in happy endings. You.

"You were part of the story once," he purrs. "But now... now you’ll become the lesson."