With his one eye watching the movement of his quarry through the magnified vision of the telescopic sight - mounted on his heavy sniper-rifle - his mind was not as focused as a killer's should have been.
The would-be victim, a middle-aged man, who walked at a leisurely gait with a young daughter seemed to be a target too tame for an assassin of his caliber.
The man's caring hand on the girl's shoulder, her jolly facial expression and the innocent tranquility in the air formed an idyllic setting which he, a murderous spoilsport, was about to interrupt with a fatal movement of his trigger-finger.
Remorse had never bothered him ever before but the present scenario had brought back some old memories that he had buried along with his humanity.
He was a widower whose only daughter, of about the same age as the girl in question, had been brutally violated and dumped in a deserted street, already a corpse, to leave him alone, uncared-for and seething with a rage that was directed against whole mankind.
His mentor had realized his potential and had taught him to channelize and mould his rage to become an assassin par excellence ; an assassin whose fingers had now turned to butter as he watched the duo get inside the safety of their house, leaving him deprived of his murderous instinct but having gained a fragment of his long-lost humanity.