Isaac's head whips around, following the gun's path. It moved. It moved and he didn't touch it, no-one did. He turns to look at Death, and realises: this is the moment. It's pregnant and heavy and Isaac knows this is all there is to his last moments. The chill of his studio and the smell of the paint, the turpentine and treated canvas, the vague hum of electricity and the noises of the city outside, all of these things are the last things he will ever know. And he's ready. He's ready.