The air was cold when Nox woke, dew beading on the windowpane above his bed. A faint buzz of movement from other dorms echoed distantly, muffled by cement walls and the thrum of campus life just stirring. The violet of dawn barely crept through the curtain slit. Another day. Routine. Precision.
He rolled out of bed with a predatory grace, landing on bare feet without a sound. His body had transformed—months of ruthless, self-imposed conditioning honed it into a machine. Each line of muscle sculpted with the same efficiency as the bullets he fired. No wasted movement. No fragility left behind.
A cold shower. Scrubbed to bone. The water helped numb the lingering ache from last night's fight—two slashes on his forearm, one across the shoulder blade, barely bleeding. One of the underground fighters had been faster than expected. Not fast enough.
He dressed in black, as always. Breathable, flexible. Hidden knife holsters beneath his pants, a silencer-sheathed handgun in his modified backpack. Face still shrouded beneath his hoodie, mask in place. Only the sharp gleam of violet cat eyes peeked out. Silent and unrelenting.
Morning coffee. Made strong, bitter, sipped in silence on the rooftop. The sun crested, spilling golden light over the horizon. He lit a cigarette. Inhaled. Exhaled. Observed.
Below, the world began to move. Students flooding the walkways, chattering, laughing. A realm of lives he'd never been part of. He'd long ago accepted that.
His morning routine unfolded like gears in a clock:
First lecture—shared with Ash and Leo. He sat in the back corner, head down, hoodie up. Ash, ever the optimist, tried again.
"Any idea what we could do for this project? Something that says 'internal perspective'?"
Leo gave a soft grunt. "Use mirrors. Shadows. Keep it grounded."
Ash nodded eagerly, pencil tapping against his chin. "That's smart. You think Nox would—"
"He doesn't talk," Leo interrupted, gaze flicking toward Nox's corner for a split second.
Nox didn't even glance up. He was already buried in lines of code, his laptop screen darkened against curious eyes. He was in the university system again, rooting through new class lists, staff records, security rotas. Watching. Collecting.
Midday—he skipped lunch, as usual. On the rooftop, he ate in silence: protein bars, dehydrated fruit, black coffee. He stretched under the sun, then disappeared into shadow.
Afternoon lectures. Minimal participation. Razor-sharp notes taken under the veil of his hood. Leo had grown more vocal—subtly, carefully—toward Ash. Not warmth, not yet, but familiarity. A tolerance, perhaps even a small thread of trust.
Ash carried the conversation, often. He talked about the lighting in their sculpture class, new brush techniques, the gallery downtown. Occasionally, Leo responded. Not dismissively. A sign.
Nox listened. Stored away nuances. Patterns.
By nightfall, he vanished from the dorm.
Through shadowed alleys and hidden corridors, he slipped beneath the city. Past a rusted steel door and into the underworld. The underground cage.
The scent of sweat and blood. The roar of men betting, jeering. The clink of steel. This was where he tested himself. Flesh to flesh. Bone to bone.
He stepped into the ring. Lean, lethal. The crowd barely reacted—he never spoke, never celebrated. Just fought.
Tonight's opponent was brutal—a tall, scarred man wielding a double-ended staff. The match began with a brutal clash of limbs. Nox dodged, pivoted, struck. A slash caught his bicep—sharp pain, fast burn—but he didn't flinch. Another graze across his ribs. Still, no reaction.
The man fell within minutes. Nox's precision was mechanical. Ruthless.
He left without claiming reward. Only the fight mattered.
Back at the dorm, long past midnight, he bandaged the wounds in silence. Sterile. Quick. Efficient.
He sat at his desk afterward, fingers flying across the keyboard. Hack requests answered. Surveillance systems bypassed. He tracked Leo's name across the underground webs, confirming that—for now—the danger had shifted. Mafia watchers kept a protective distance, their presence subtle.
No one knew what Nox was. Only that he was quiet. Cold. Unreachable.
As the city slept, Nox stood at the window, the moonlight casting his shadow long over the floor. He smoked again, thinking of nothing. Or maybe of everything.
Somewhere behind his calm violet eyes, pain lingered. Old blood. Old screams. But not tonight.
Tonight, he was steel. And silence.
End of Chapter 17