There’s something about the gaze of a snipers scope. The cold lens that scans the horizon for an unsuspecting victim, gliding between a soldier cleaning his rifle, or another one writing a letter home, to an officer giving a lecture to his men. Shooting a rifle like this will be loud, it’ll be a shock to the system, and without any sound to cover the shot, the skilled marksmen would need to move away in an instant or risk getting caught. The cross-hairs of a scope are cold, brutal. Hard lines that cross together to signal death to a young lad in a uniform. From up here in this tower, a sniper is death incarnate. Indiscriminately picking its targets from a distance, disconnected, uncaring.