A lone sniper appears within the chaos. What appears to be a flame of black and red becomes his halo. The sinner is tired, yet frenzied. In his hand laid a worn Lee-Enfield bolt-action rifle, in which he raises it again:

“I shall feel as the ponderous mass of the gun barrel rest upon my viscera.”

His eyes are empty, his ideals snuffed, and his memories were shattered by the violence before him. It’s all he can recall, and all he’ll ever know. The sinner has his finger on the trigger.

“Let this accursed fell bullet pierce through them…!”