One.
The stage is set. His target strolls ahead, carefree and ugly. Beauty, waiting to be made.
He had crafted intricate props for this work. A curtain of rose petals to adorn the actor, brilliant bolts to decorate them with, and a soundtrack set to traditional four/four. His personal favorite.
Khada Jhin dons his mask in preparation for opening night.
Two.
He shivers in anticipation, the heavy footfalls indicating lack of caution. He tuts to himself, for what good is an actor who cannot commit to the part they play? It is of little importance.
His hand twitches on the trigger, almost firing it too early, and he chuckles at his own nervousness. Years of being an artist, yet he still feels the familiar stage-fright.
Silence. Trepidation. And then the satisfaction of another successful show. The only things he can still feel.
Three.
The performer steps on the trap, the distinct hissing noise alerting him as he shouts, "Who's there?!" and draws a wicked knife.
"How barbaric."
Jhin laments to himself as he fires. A flash of violet locks the marionette in place. He screams as two bullets bury themselves deep into his shoulders, and the director steps forth.
Four.
A single bullet, pulsing with raw energy lodges itself through the man's heart, ripping through his body as he screams.
The director allows himself a smile behind his iconic mask, noting the lovely trails of red and black that blossom out from the shattered rib cage.
The trap finally detonates, throwing up rose petals that gently light upon the body like snowfall, as the artist bows before an invisible audience.