The first pale light of dawn crept quietly through the thin window slats of the dormitory, painting soft lines on the cold concrete floor. Inside the small, cluttered room, a black figure stirred—tall, lean, and utterly silent. Nox remained still for a long moment, senses sharp, waiting for the city's subtle rhythms to pulse around him before he moved.
He did not rise immediately; instead, his violet eyes—sharp and cold like twin amethysts—opened beneath the shadow of his hood. Those eyes alone betrayed him, piercing the darkness like shards of glass. The rest of his face, obscured by the hood and a tightly drawn mask, was unreadable—a perfect mask of detachment.
Without a word, without sound, Nox slipped from his narrow bed. The room was a fortress of secrets, walls lined with hidden compartments and black cases—an arsenal carefully concealed behind the mundane. But he did not linger. His movements were precise, practiced, honed to near invisibility.
In the cramped bathroom, the cold water pelted his skin like needles, shocking every nerve awake. He welcomed the bite, letting it wash away any lingering fatigue or distraction. No steam obscured his hooded silhouette; only the faint glimmer of violet eyes reflected in the fogged mirror. The body was lean and toned, carved by years of discipline—muscles taut beneath black fabric, a contrast to the softness the world might mistake for weakness.
Back in his room, Nox brewed coffee, the bitter blackness a ritual he never abandoned. Each cup was a calculated comfort, an anchor in the chaos. He sipped slowly, the taste sharp and grounding, eyes never leaving the glow of his laptop screen.
His fingertips danced across the keyboard with the precision of a concert pianist, bypassing firewalls, slipping through encrypted college systems. Cameras flickered to life under his command, the feeds revealing corridors, dorm rooms, exits, blind spots. Every motion, every detail was captured in digital ink.
But Nox never approached.
He never revealed himself.
On the rooftop, where the cold night air bit with unforgiving sharpness, Nox trained alone. The city sprawled beneath him—a labyrinth of light and shadow. His body moved with deadly grace through silent drills: punches, kicks, evasive rolls, precise strikes to phantom enemies only he could see. The muscles beneath his black attire flexed with purpose; every movement was a rehearsal for survival.
A cigarette glowed faintly between his fingers, the ember a fragile beacon in the darkness. Smoke curled upward, dissolving into the night as he took long, measured drags. His violet eyes scanned the horizon, reflecting the city's restless heartbeat—always alert, always calculating.
Far below, Leo moved among the others, a prince cloaked in suspicion and danger. His orders were sharp and clipped, his gaze wary. But Nox remained apart—an unblinking shadow.
Never a word passed between them. No glance exchanged. Nox watched. Always watched.
When Leo and the others gathered for their briefing—guns laid out with meticulous care, routes mapped in whispered urgency—Nox stayed on the rooftop, a silent sentinel cloaked in darkness.
He listened without intervening, absorbing every detail through hacked feeds and distant observation. The threat against Leo was real, simmering just beneath the surface, but Nox's role was clear: observe, prepare, survive.
As the night deepened, he retreated to his hidden sanctum—a fortress within the dorm room, black cases locked tight, weapons stored away from prying eyes. There, under the dim glow of his laptop, he resumed his silent war against invisible enemies, fingers flying over keys, eyes sharp and unyielding.
He ate alone, drank alone, smoked alone.
No friendships.
No trust.
Only the cold, perfect solitude of a hunter waiting for the right moment to strike.
End of Chapter 9