Nox awoke before the first light touched the sky, long before the campus stirred with its student routine. The alarm never rang; it never had to. His mind was a machine now, finely tuned to the rhythm of preparation and survival. He rose silently, the sheets left untouched behind him, the bed beneath barely used.
In the cool stillness of the dorm room, Leo's side remained undisturbed, sharp and cold as the prince himself. Ash sprawled lazily on his own bed, tangled in sheets, one leg hanging off the edge, an unknowing participant in the quiet war zone they shared. Nox stood between them, shadowed and unbothered, a phantom presence that neither intruded nor welcomed intrusion.
Nox's body was ready. After weeks of isolation, control, discipline, and silence, it had become a perfect vessel for his soul. His lean frame, once adjusting to new proportions, now pulsed with strength. Six-foot-two of carved precision, his frame was a canvas of smooth muscle, hidden under layers of black. His abs cut clean, thighs firm and lethal, arms deceptively lean, and his spine tattoo glinted faintly in the mirror before he wrapped it again in obsidian fabric.
He moved without sound, sliding the hoodie over his head, letting the soft folds fall around his masked face. Only the violet slits of his cat-like eyes remained visible. They gleamed like sharp gems in the pre-dawn dark.
From his heavily modified closets — ordinary to the untrained eye — he pulled out weapons with surgical care. Twin knives, coated with a chemical compound for silent kills. Two modified Glock 43X pistols fitted with suppressors, their metal cold and matte. A disassembled sniper rifle packed in a laptop shell. One burner phone, still wrapped in plastic. Two fake IDs. Cash in seven currencies, rolled tight and hidden in belt compartments.
All of it went into layered compartments on his person. Inside the soles of his boots. Beneath the lining of his hoodie. Strapped under the waistband, tight against his lower back. The devil never walks without teeth.
He left without a trace, not a squeak from the door, not a flutter in the curtains.
The rooftop was his sanctum.
There, under the thinning veil of stars, he stretched and tested the body again. Full range of motion. Flexibility, strength, precision. He launched into movement: slow Tai Chi-like motion that transitioned seamlessly into acrobatics and high-impact military calisthenics. Pushups on his fingers. Handstand rolls. Weighted squats with resistance gear strapped to his waist. Every limb obeyed with elegant precision.
At 5 AM, the city was still. The gym on campus not yet open. But Nox didn't need it. His rooftop sanctuary doubled as his training ground. Tethered resistance bands tied to exhaust rails. Dumbbells hidden in hollowed rooftop panels. Pull-up bars installed beneath the concrete frames.
After a shower — precise, quick, cold — he dressed and left for his next ritual: hacking café.
The café was a front. On the outside, it sold overpriced espresso to university students pretending to be deep in thought. But Nox knew the manager, had hacked the system weeks ago. With a modified laptop he rebuilt himself, he slid into the corner booth, ears covered in noise-cancelling buds, hood low, fingers moving with absolute intent.
The black web opened its gates.
He sifted through encrypted requests: wiped identities, stolen satellite access, corrupted surveillance. He selected three mid-level jobs. Hacked a small company's internal finance reports for an anonymous investor. Corrupted the metadata trail for a politician's dirty videos. Finally, slipped into an underground medical firm's lab files to extract experimental drug data.
All in a day's warmup.
The credits rolled in. Cryptocurrency accounts across shadow chains. He cross-transferred the coins, fed them into laundered exchanges, converted what he needed into liquid assets stored in anonymous bank accounts.
He had money. And now, a body that could kill again.
He made his way to a known black market dealer. A tailor's shop that smelled of leather and tobacco. The backdoor opened without a word when he flashed the symbol he had tattooed in infrared ink behind his left ear.
Downstairs: a shooting range carved under the city. Echoes of silent gunshots, the scent of gunpowder and oil.
Nox took his time.
He dismantled and reassembled five weapons blindfolded. Then, he fired — in silence, in motion, left hand only, right hand only, both hands. Long-range, short burst, hip fire, sniper prone shots. The paper targets shredded with symmetrical precision. Not a single bullet off-center.
Hours passed.
He returned home when the world grew quiet again. Not immediately to the dorm. First, surveillance.
He studied his roommates again through the lens of his silent corner.
Leo — the mafia prince. Sharp as a blade, eyes always scanning, movements guarded. He had stopped trusting long before this campus.
Ash — the sunshine contrast. Loud, warm, always trying. He asked questions. Simple things. "You guys got any ideas for this art assignment?"
Leo ignored him.
Nox, when pressed, simply answered with: "No."
Then silence returned. That was their rhythm.
Back in the dorm room — a standard three-person layout — Nox's bed sat under the window. The desks stood lined along the walls, each personalized in their way. Leo's was immaculate, paper-thin, a tablet and pen the only sign of life. Ash's overflowed with color pens, snacks, printed notes, half-drawn sketches.
Nox's was black. Black laptop, black keyboard. The desk drawers were hollowed inside, holding knives and forged passports. His closet shelves looked empty, but each layer flipped open to another world of arsenal.
A single heater stood on their shared table, and while Leo rarely used it and Ash made ramen, Nox only heated water for his coffee.
Always alone. Always the rooftop.
There, Nox smoked his single black cigarette. One every two days. No more. He drank his bitter brew, watched the stars fade again.
And trained. More.
The body was perfect now. But the soul—it was the soul that needed armor next.
End of Chapter 11