The dawn crept over the city skyline, brushing the cracked edges of the dormitory windows with orange light. A soft hum filled the air—the sound of machines stirring to life, the city waking up. But Nox was already on the rooftop, his body moving through a fluid sequence of combat drills. His breath came in even, steady gusts, the vapor curling in the cold air as his fists struck the invisible enemy.
For the past four months, this had been his sanctuary. From pre-dawn to sunrise, he moved with mechanical discipline—pushups, core rotations, precise strikes, knife-hand drills, shadow combat, and a flexibility regimen designed to keep his already lithe body agile. At 6'2", with muscle packed like a coiled spring beneath his black long-sleeved compression gear, Nox had slowly pushed this body into peak condition. His previously soft muscles were now sculpted, each move a testament to relentless repetition and surgical control.
After training, he showered in the dorm's shared facilities, always the first one in. The hoodie went back up. The black mask never left his face. Violet cat-like eyes remained the only exposed feature—a haunting gaze that lingered like a ghost in mirrors.
He prepared a strong cup of black coffee using his portable heater. A silent ritual. He took it to the rooftop, settled with his tablet, and began sorting through his digital tasks. One burner phone for contactless clients. Another for encryption routes. A third, a modified custom device with a defensive firewall he wrote himself.
Hacking had become his daytime work. Infiltrating university systems to secure class alignment, monitor student and staff movements, and tap into communication networks. Today, he cracked into the staff database, mapping every professor's social accounts, schedules, and background. Every route in and out of campus was logged and watched.
Mid-morning, classes began. Nox moved like a shadow, blending into the lecture halls. Despite his striking appearance, his silence rendered him invisible. He shared every lecture with Leo Morati and Ash Navarro.
Leo sat upright, sharp black suit collar poking from beneath his leather coat. He was silent too, cold and distant, his sharp grey eyes occasionally flicking toward Ash in response to a question or request. A prince pretending to be a student. The strain of being hunted sat heavy on his shoulders. But he held his posture with unshakable poise.
Ash, all tousled hair and art student charm, kept trying. He cracked quiet jokes, offered his thoughts during art critiques, and now had the smallest victory—Leo had begun to respond. Not much, just a word or two, maybe a grunt of acknowledgment or a precise critique on brushstroke composition or linework, but it was something.
Nox simply observed. He took notes. He analyzed behavioral cues, body language shifts, stress responses. He didn't speak unless absolutely necessary. He watched the story of the novel unfold, not as a participant, but as the lense through which the world was documented.
In the afternoon, while Leo and Ash went to the library to work on a joint visual art project, Nox headed into the underground. Through a coded message, he received coordinates for an arms dealer operating out of a shut-down freight terminal.
Inside a dark, concrete-lined hall, he examined his next arsenal—a sniper package.
Details of the Arsenal:
CheyTac M200 Intervention – precision sniper rifle chambered in .408 CheyTac. Sub-MOA accuracy at over 2,500 yards. Fitted with a custom suppressor and digital windage compensator.
Barrett MRAD – modular rifle with interchangeable barrels (.338 Lapua Magnum, .300 Norma Magnum). Compact for urban warfare.
Accuracy International AXMC – coated in matte black, optimized with a Schmidt & Bender PM II scope.
Nightforce ATACR 7-35x56mm optics with integrated ballistic software and infrared laser rangefinder.
Custom-built ghillie suit, thermal-blocking layer.
Hydraulic bipod system with anti-recoil tech.
Silicon-based portable shooting mat, foldable for covert insertion.
Tungsten-core AP rounds, subsonic variants for stealth operations.
He ran diagnostics. Cleaned the barrels. Disassembled, inspected, and reassembled each weapon by memory.
With the weapons stored in a locked trunk modified into the floor of his assigned closet, Nox returned to the dorms silently. On his side of the room—bed beneath the window, black-out curtains always drawn—every drawer, every panel held secret compartments. No evidence was ever visible.
That evening, Leo and Ash returned with boxed dinners. Ash set up the folding heater on the makeshift cooking table and began boiling ramen. Leo leaned near the window, unusually calm, the dim campus lights casting a soft glow across his pale features.
In the corner, seated on the ground in full black gear, Nox shaped a new sculpture.
Using reinforced graphite clay, he sculpted the outline of an ancient Greek warrior—Helios, torn and burning from within. Ash's eye caught on it, mesmerized. He opened his mouth, as though to comment, but stopped. Nox didn't acknowledge him.
"I like the texture," Ash said, hesitant. No reply.
Leo raised a brow. "It's well done."
Again, no response. Nox remained focused, movements mechanical.
In the dead of night, Nox activated his alert system. Leo was being followed. His schedule showed he was returning from a secluded library on the east wing of campus. Nox tapped into the campus surveillance feeds—shadowy figures trailing him.
He watched, not from a camera—but from the rooftop.
Three masked men moved in on Leo. A fight broke out near the empty quad. But Leo didn't need help. His stance was trained. Brutal. He took down one with a gun disarm, another with a knife twist. But the third almost pinned him—until dark-suited men emerged from the alley, taking the assailants down swiftly.
Mafia backup. Always watching.
Nox sipped his bitter black coffee, eyes unblinking.
He didn't move. Didn't interfere. This wasn't his business.
Not yet.
Not until he decided it was.
From the shadows, the devil-violet eyed watcher sat still, a monument to silence in a world where stories burned slowly, like the embers he crushed beneath his boot.
He was not a hero. Not a savior. Just a ghost.
Waiting.
Watching.
End of Chapter 15