AN: Planning on this being the next "major" story after Unholy Alliance. Unless it turns out awful. Hope it doesn't turn out awful. Feedback on awful/nonawfulness is appreciated. (The former moreso, because I'm admittedly biased!)

"My beloved!" The ruby-robed man fell to his knees, his arms splayed in woe. "How could this be?"

Before him, a woman was smiling cruelly, a knife held between her slender fingers. "Beloved? You, as always, lie to me, demon."

What dreadfully trite dialogue.

The stage was poorly made, a teak wood paneling would never be used in the setting. The Ionian banner in the background was completely the incorrect color for the period, and the props had such clear scuff markings. Jhin could already tell which false chair the actress would bumble into taking her fall at the end of the scene, as it was obviously a soft fake.

Perhaps not obviously to everyone. But he was different.

Khada Jhin sat in the shade of the theater's highest seats. The open roof provided the legendary purity of the Ionian mountain air to the patrons. From this angle, he was invisible to anyone below, due to the outward construction of the building. And, due to the sun's position behind him, the actors themselves would note little but a blur in his place, certainly not with enough detail to make out the pistol clutched tightly in his right hand.

Really, it was like they were asking him to conduct this assassination.

Below him, the play continued. The actors were thankfully poor enough that Jhin would gladly focus on other things, such as his target. An Ionian Monk, a feeble old man, sat in the front row, his glossy eyes transfixed on the show before him. Jhin had no idea exactly what the man had done to earn the ire of his employers, and the assassin didn't much care. An involuntary shiver went down his spine as he stared at the elder's spotted face. Imperfect. Ugly. He would make him a sight to behold again.

A sudden gasp from the audience roused Jhin's attention to the stage again. The lead actor was wrestling with the villain, her movements frenzied as she attempted to stab at him with the false knife.

Poor form. She's not even holding it correctly. Was this choreographed by an ape?

He supposed this was the climax, as the hero managed to overpower the actress, shoving her towards the suspect chair Jhin had noticed earlier. With a crack, generated somewhere offstage, the woman's head smashed against the wooden chair, and she slumped to the ground, supposedly unconscious. Panting dramatically, the man turned to face the audience, looking panicked. Really, it looked more like dull surprise, but Jhin supposed it was meant to be panic. The curtain began to close on the scene, and the audience stood to applaud. Before him, the theater filled with clapping and cheering, the low roar rising to a higher volume as more and more patrons got to their feet. The old minister was one of the last, struggling to stand as he slowly rose to his feet. Far above, the killer felt ecstasy build in his chest. This was his moment. It was time to show these buffoons what a real show looked like.

He raised the pistol and looked down the sights. The old man was clapping now, but slowly, as if each impact hurt his hands. What a frail creature. This was charity. He'd keel over soon enough anyway. Jhin would at least make a show of it. He smiled lightly to himself.

Perhaps they'll even send me roses.

Out of the corner of his eye, Jhin saw a large man begin to sit down. The ovation would end soon, and his window was closing. He focused, gave the monk a final glance, and squeezed the trigger.

The moment of the shot was pure bliss. For just an instant, Jhin could hear his own heart beating as Whisper emitted her usual hiss, the dull tone filling his ears like music. This was what he was meant for. This was his purpose.

His art.

The crack of gunfire was nearly completely muffled by the applause as a bullet shot forward, tearing through the air before passing through the monk's heart. With a last gasp, the wide-eyed elder fell forward, his body slumping onto the stage. Blood trickled onto the curtain. Some of the audience was still clapping, as they had not yet noticed. Jhin basked in the sound as he quickly holstered Whisper, reaching to his side to grasp the rope he had set up during the first act. Nimbly, the assassin climbed, still hidden by the curtain, as he rose towards the roof of the open air theater. The screaming had started as he pulled himself over the edge of the ceiling, stepping onto the rooftop. Allowing himself the luxury of a little vanity, Jhin turned around to watch the reactions to his performance. The crowd was in a panic, many of them still staring at the body. The monk's corpse was draped over the edge of the stage, the blood dyeing the blue curtain red. The contrast was sublime, and Jhin smiled yet again. Perfection. Just as he expected.

His ego satiated, the assassin opened the pack he had left on the roof, containing a small hangglider. Strapping it to his back, Jhin ran and leapt off of the theater balcony, cruising on the wind far from the site of his crime. They would never find him, but they would know it was him. Who else could put on such a fine show?

Later that evening, Jhin entered a small hut on the outskirts of an Ionian farmstead. It was a simple, traditionally styled home. The area got little traffic, but those who passed by considered it just a shed, or perhaps a barn. They never suspected that the farm was merely a front, carefully crafted by Jhin's employers. And they would certainly never realize that, inside, a ladder carried the Golden Demon to his lodgings, a sizable underground chamber.

Dropping into the seat before his desk, Khada Jhin retrieved Whisper from her holster. Gingerly, he opened a drawer and removed a bullet, carefully sliding it into the gun to make up for the one he had used on the monk. Another bullet was placed in the drawer, to make up for the missing one. Four perfect rows of four shells each. He couldn't be unorganized. As he wiped the barrel of the gun down, Jhin started to hum to himself. He noted with slight annoyance that it was the opening theme to the play.

Well, at least the orchestra has promise.

His focus was so intent on polishing Whisper that he did not notice the letter on his desk until time had passed, and the weapon was clean. How long it took, he was not sure. It was clean, and that was all that mattered. Of course, he so rarely got mail, so this would certainly be worth reading.

As he opened the letter, he ran his fingers across the material of the envelope. It was soft, almost like a velvet. As usual, the Kashuri Cabal spared no expense.

Even Khada Jhin knew little about his own employers. They were a splinter group in Ionian politics, regarded by many as an outlier. They planned to change that, by promoting fear in the hearts of the people, breaking the trust placed in the Kinkou Order and Grand Duchess Karma. They manufactured the finest weapons in Ionia, and seemed to be preparing for a new age of war. Beyond that, he did not know the details. Never had he seen the leader's face, and even when they arranged for his release from prison, they stayed at a reach, avoiding contact until they needed the Golden Demon. Admittedly, it was a bit vexing, knowing he was but a tool used to spread terror, like a loud gong in a silent room. But the quality of the performances their support provided was enough for Jhin to overlook that detail. He began to read the letter, his fingers lightly tapping on the desk in his other hand.

"Jhin,

Your presence will be required tomorrow evening. We have recently formulated a new assignment requiring your talents, and are willing to pay extra for your cooperation in this crucial matter.

Regards,

Elder Xia"

Interest piqued in Jhin's head as the tapping of his fingers quickened. Intriguing. Typically they simply delivered the details of the job. An actual summons hadn't been required in months. As Jhin pulled the mask off of his face, he left it on the desk, next to the letter, as he climbed into bed.

Perhaps this would be interesting.

The infuriatingly catchy tune continued to haunt his thoughts as he drifted to sleep. Sometimes, even lesser artists could prove influential. He could only imagine the world's reactions to his performances.

The critics will love me.