#I'll proofread it for the 50th time tomorrow

[perfect-fourth]

Hⁱˢ ˡᵃᵗᵉˢᵗ ᵃʳʳᵃⁿᵍᵉᵐᵉⁿᵗ ʰᵃᵈ ᵇᵉᵉⁿ ˢᵘʳᵖʳⁱˢⁱⁿᵍˡʸ ᵉᵃˢʸ ᵗᵒ ᵒʳᶜʰᵉˢᵗʳᵃᵗᵉ.

A year had gone and past in conjunction with his arrival to Piltover-Zaun, his third reappearance in the twin cities and certainly not his last, had he any say in the matter.  Getting out of Tuula again had been simple enough.  Even without the old man commanding the Navori, they found use of him and his methods; and for the most part, left him to his own macabre devices when he completed whatever menial task they set him on.  It was never anything that created conflict with his own intentions, and they knew better than to ask anything of him that did, at least without the former Eye of Twilight to tell them what to do.  He didn’t much care about their cause; be it for better or worse, so long as it gave him a means to further his own.  

  It wasn’t that he especially enjoyed the region; the constant whirring and buzzing of machinery was a distraction rather than a calming white noise, and more often than not he found himself falling ill to the smothering smog and toxins that permeated the atmosphere, no matter how careful he was to protect himself and cleanse his numerous temporary habitats.  His only solace was found in the part-time work he’d taken as a keeper for one of the many greenhouses that spotted the city, little pockets of foliage in an otherwise bleak and repugnant landscape that offered little hope to anyone who had the misfortune of living there.  Truly, he couldn’t have been the only one who saw the irony in the unholy green glow of the Sunken City, a color representing life to taunt a place overwrought with death.

  Of course, there was also his art, the driving force behind his motivation to return to such a technological dystopia.  As uncomfortable as it was, there was no denying the grotesque beauty in this place.  Twisted iron and even more twisted people, Jhin had felt for a long time now that he hadn’t realized his full artistic potential in his previous installments.  His work back then had left much to be desired, especially in the case of...

No, no, no, no.  Now was not the time to think about Zed, or Shen, or that wretched girl who had systematically ruined his vision.  Tonight was not about them, and it was unlikely they’d heard anything of his whereabouts this time around.  It had been both a blessing and a curse to operate in a place where he was only one of many to paint the streets in blood.  In Ionia, no masterpiece went unnoticed, everything held a weight to it that echoed horror through legends that spun themselves into the cautionary bedtime tales of many a defiant child.  But in Zaun, most of his feats were swept away with the rest of the muck that soiled the bowels of the city, no more than a small snippet of acknowledgement in the local papers. It wasn’t for a lack of trying, but it seemed almost every time he performed there he was plagued by some misfortune or another. Be it a trap not going off when it was supposed to, or a composition disrupted before it’s full beauty could be realized, Jhin was half convinced by now that some sort of horrible curse had befallen him.  Either way, surely nothing substantial that was likely to circulate beyond the sea.  Even if it had, the last he’d heard about the Master of Shadows, Zed had his own hands full dealing with the backlash from unrelated endeavors.  Something to do with the vastaya, and two in particular, though he knew little else outside of this. Served him right, really. 

It was of no matter, in the end.  Tonight was the night he’d force the dual cities to bear witness to his gruesome techniques.  Tonight, he would make his mark on the consciousness of Piltover-Zaun.  Permanently.

  The hexdraulic descenders were one of many industrial splendors that helped to shape the outline of the city; so prominent a landmark that the local hooligans had taken to riding on one of them as a right of passage.  The Howler, they called it -- certainly a beast of a transportation device that had initially peaked the virtuoso’s interest,  but soon fallen to the wayside when he’d grown to understand the importance of the smaller, more streamlined descenders.  They carried less passengers at any given time, most of whom held power in either or both of the neighborhoods.  Government officials and high-profile scientists, popular entertainers and media influencers--those who would set Piltover’s Finest into a frenzy trying to uncover the cause of their untimely demise. 

 Working in the gardens had been a genuine form of stress relief for him; but it also carried the added benefit of camouflaging him as nothing but a faceless bystander in a place that was often frequented by the higher class.  He’d overheard many an interesting conversation in his time there; but one conversation in particular had cued him in on how and where to find the schedule logs for these descenders; a knowledge he put to great use for that night’s performance.

5 minutes.  It was 5 minutes until the clock struck twenty hundred hours.  Not his favorite time, but a necessary one to ensure a perfect number of victims would unwittingly meet their demise inside the private descender that was set to rise back into Piltover.  He’d studied the four passengers who were to be boarding that night; ever the meticulous sort, though who they were meant little to Jhin personally.  Just that they were important, and that their deaths would leave a scar on the hearts and minds of not only those who bore witness to his designs, but the region as a whole.

Being there had given him the liberty of exercising his creativity; exploring alternate means to express his art and magic, and tonight was no different.  Jhin had never much entertained the idea of modifying poisons before, but the abundance of toxic substances that were at his disposal were a little bit more than tempting to fool around with.  After a lengthy two months of study and experimentation, he’d found the perfect substance, and the perfect disruption method via modified gas grenades.  Placing them inside the descender at the appropriate time had been the most difficult part; not because of anyone taking notice of the fanciful bits of molded metal and cogwork that looked more like decoration than anything, but because the person--creature--whatever he was who he’d recruited to do the task for him with his stealthy abilities kept accidently setting the little devices off before he even got to the location.  He’d had to reschedule his performance at least twice because of this; eventually coming to the conclusion that the assortment of knives the jester carried on his person were piercing the canisters.  How his physiology bypassed the effects of the fumes was beyond him, but it certainly brought to mind some questions about whether or not he should be involved in any dealings with this other, so-called ‘demon’.         

In 3 minutes, now, the four passengers would finish boarding what would inevitably become a chamber of death; locked away beside the inconspicuous embellishings that at just the right moment would release a concoction of horrible toxins, with a very specific effect.  He could visualize it so clearly in his mind.  Slowly, these unfortunate aristocrats would begin to lose their ability to breath as the chemicals bound to their cells, transformed them, their lungs splintering like tiny shards of glass. They'd gasp and choke for air, but each breath would only bring more pain as the contamination spread into veins and arteries, eventually rupturing skin and kissing away their lips and eyelids with the corrosive fluid that was once their blood eating through soft tissue.

 It was a hideous and painful process that left behind a bubbling mess of flesh and bone, just barely distinguishable as human.  Whoever had luck enough to stumble onto his latest masterpiece wouldn't see this, though-- at least, not at first. Where blood would boil and seep, his magic left streams of gold, and where flesh would tear and melt, delicate roots of wisteria would sprout and spread along the floor of the compartment.  It would be a sight to behold when they actually managed to breach the door, but that would take them quite a fair bit of time to accomplish.  Every facet of his plan had been carefully conducted, right down to the the workings of the machine itself.  By his meddling, the descender would shudder to a halt at the exact spot where it was to cross up into the golden city above-- where those in both cities would be able to marvel at his display.  Threads of magic would unfurl around the spherical machine into illusionary flora that gave it the appearance of a blossoming lotus-- and concealed the gnarled metal cables which would inevitably swallow the cart thanks to the nature of gravity.

 Clad in attire suitable for any other faceless citizen of Zaun, Jhin sneered at the flavorless layers of drearily hued fabrics and simplistic patterns, something he tried to bolster at least a little with choice accessories and one of the numerous protective masks he’d acquired during his time in the city.  By no means was it any kind of substitute for his most beloved facial wear, but he wore the device well, just as one would expect of an astute actor challenging themselves with an unfamiliar role. He had to admit, the abundance of selection when it came to facial wear in Zaun was pretty impressive.

He watched the events of the city below from beyond the panes of an abandoned alcove ascending the walls of the two cities, a delicately crafted telescope at hand.  He’d set up camp there a few hours earlier, beside him a small lantern, a satchel containing extra supplies, two flasks; one water, one alcohol, and a handful of homemade snacks were he to find himself stuck there longer than intended.  Naturally, he kept Whisper at hand, though with no intent of use.  A precautionary instrument, and a source of comfort for the artist, he stroked metal-clad fingertips across her emblem, an invariable and timed motion.  It wasn’t long, now, before the beauty of his craftsmanship would express itself in full for the whole of both cities to marvel.  He could hardly contain his excitement as he heard the soft tick of the pocket watch at his breast, and for a moment, he reluctantly desisted his gun-fondling to tip the telescope up to his line of vision and peer out into the crowded city below.  They were boarding now, each of them, one astutely dressed woman and three...

Two.

One, two. 

Where was the third gentleman who was to board the descender?  Perhaps he’d already entered?  Yes, that must have been it, surely, he hadn’t been watching the entire time, after all, and--

No...

“No.”

  Once, twice, again, again, he scoped across the panels of each window, he stood, he repositioned, he scanned it from every conceivable angle but... There were only three people on board.  He could feel his pulse start to pound in his temples.

One would think that if the sanctity of these individuals lives were of non-importance, than it wasn’t really of any matter if one slipped away, but that sadly just wasn’t the case.  He’d had a very distinct and fixed idea that he’d wanted to convey that night, and while the mechanisms that he’d implemented did indeed seem to be working without a single misstep, it was not what he had arranged.  As the seeds of his creation took root, the artisan barely heard the loud echo of creaking metal beyond the ringing in his ears. He clutched the telescope he’d brought but no longer used it, so tight that the retractable brass slid out of alignment beneath the bow of his fist. 

“This is wrong, this is all wrong!  Where is he?  Where is the Professor?!  I don’t understand, why isn’t he--this can’t be happening to me again.”  

Shambling to bring his now partially dismantled telescope back up to look at the scene that had unfolded, Jhin took little comfort in the suffering of the three who thrashed around in their last ditch effort to cling to life.  Hands trembling, he lowered it once more and forced himself to inhale on the count of 4.  Hold for 8, exhale 4-- a repetition that continued until he had managed to calm himself down enough to at least stop shaking.  This did not mean he was in any way, shape, or form happy about his circumstances, but he couldn’t allow that to control him.  

By the time he looked at his artwork again, everything had fallen into place, and bystanders had started to take notice.  Silent, save for a deep sigh, the maestro prepared his hand canon with an impressive swiftness.  He unlatched the window and rested the muzzle through the slight opening, taking aim at the first person he saw within range down below.  Whisper sang her tune into the unsuspecting courier’s flesh, leaving the woman’s blood and brain matter in a scattering of petals across the cobblestone.  Four.  But not how he’d envisioned.    

“Unacceptable.” he spat to himself, collecting his bearings from the kickback of his canon.  A sneer was hidden behind the sharp contours of his gasmask.

“Uninspired.  Absolute garbage!” As much as he wished to continue berating his own work and breaking things, he knew he couldn’t linger there long.  His improvising had left him vulnerable to discovery, already people were looking to see where that powerful blast had come from, though more were simply trying to find shelter in case the onslaught were to continue.  Collecting most of his things haphazardly, the killer stood and rolled onto his heels towards the tiny passageway he’d found his way through earlier that day.  He had been planning to leave Zaun as soon as he’d accomplished his work anyway, but it’s simultaneous success and failure had ensured his departure.  Once he gathered the seldom few necessities he’d left in a safe space nearby, he’d be out on the next boat.  Siren began screaming in the distance.  

He needed to reassess his work.  He needed to get his inspiration back.  It was time to go home.