Jhin had studied his next subject meticulously, watching them from the shadows for weeks. They were a creature of such delicate beauty, an intricate blend of elegance and strength that stirred something unfamiliar inside him. A dancer causing an uproar in Ionia. Their movements were fluid, precise—like the stroke of a masterful brush. And yet, Jhin felt the subtle, undeniable pull of his obsession, the way he saw their every moment as a potential work of art.

The first attempt had been perfect, the setting—flawless. He had prepared everything to the smallest detail: the distance, the wind, the lighting, the very angle at which they would fall. Yet, as he had lined up the shot, something stopped him. His heart raced, a foreign feeling that threatened to undo the precision he’d spent years perfecting. His finger had hovered over the trigger, but he couldn’t pull it. Not yet.

The target… was something more than he had anticipated.

It wasn’t just their beauty, their composure—it was the way they moved through the world, so unknowing, so alive. It was the way they breathed, the soft rhythm of their pulse, as though the world had not yet painted them in its tragic strokes. Jhin watched them from the distance now, not as a predator but as an artist studying his muse. They had become his masterpiece in the making.

Tonight, he would confront them, not as the masked figure of death, but as himself. The cloak and mask, those symbols of grandeur and terror, would be left behind. For the first time, Jhin would meet them with no performance—just a man, unadorned, standing before his creation.

His footsteps were soft as he approached, eyes cold but filled with something deeper—an emotion he couldn’t quite place. He spoke, his voice quiet, measured.

“I’ve been watching you, you know.”

And for once, it wasn’t a threat.