[set mode: example]
The faraway blond in my crosshairs wore his pensiveness with the care usually reserved for a tailored suit. Not a single wrinkle skewed upon his brow.
And despite half a life spent training successfully for instants like this, just half a second sufficed for those lessons to fail. I couldn't help but detest the cynical calculus beneath his casual artifice... detest it with ire enough to induce a rare, faint waver in the 'hairs. At once this morbid errand felt like a donation to the hapless, my .30 calibre shot of enlightenment locked and loaded for a mind in dire need of opening.
The notion was timely in its effect, for soon the steadiness eased back into my scope and the tiny picture of a man within. Indeed his affect became oddly apt, through tracing upon my memory a few lines roughly similar to the silhouette of any another condemned soul. There he sat, a convict, head bowed in contemplation of a fate soon to come; the imported leather sofa was his cot, the tastefully decorated room quite ironic as a cell.
Restless from all its inaction, my finger now began an argument with the trigger. Aloof beyond the tension in their debate, my mind once again became the remote, indifferent observer it had been taught to become.
As such, my emotions distilled to nothing whatsoever when, unsurprisingly, my finger won.
* * *
[reset mode]
Jack braced the rifle's bipod on the windowsill. He cradled the piece close and looked through its scope. The image showed Sergei, brooding on a couch. Jack took a moment to steady down, then squeezed the trigger. Sergei's head exploded.
[/example]