The dim dawn light filtered weakly through the cracked blinds.
The room smelled stale, a blend of forgotten sweat and dust.
Nox lay still, eyes wide open, not blinking.
No dreams, no confusion. Only the cold hum of consciousness.
Today was for assembling the tools of survival in this new world.
---
He rose carefully. The floor was cold beneath bare feet—unfeeling.
He walked to the worn desk shoved into a corner.
No fancy gadgets, no familiar tech. Just a black laptop, picked up secondhand from a shady street vendor days ago. A simple machine with patched software, nothing flashy.
Power on.
---
Nox's fingers moved swiftly across the keyboard—efficient, deliberate.
No hesitation.
He tapped into the local digital network.
Not the global internet he once knew—this was a fictional realm's facsimile, limited and controlled, but still ripe for exploitation.
The campus network was lightly secured.
Student files, campus maps, schedules—he siphoned information quietly, erasing traces.
He knew he couldn't access his past life's resources here.
No crypto wallets waiting to be claimed.
No secret bank accounts.
He was starting from zero.
---
But zero was nothing for him.
---
Nox crafted multiple false IDs.
Names scavenged from obscure texts, dates shifted, photos altered using local software.
Each ID was backed by a digital footprint fabricated carefully: fake library visits, class attendances, cafeteria purchases.
Invisible layers woven into the campus database.
He cross-checked his work against surveillance cameras' blind spots.
---
Next came money.
Without access to previous wealth, Nox had to generate income.
He scanned local underground forums and dark corners of the campus black market.
Hacking contracts, smuggling requests, discreet courier jobs.
Each gig paid small but clean—enough to build an arsenal.
---
Then came the most delicate phase—acquisition.
No flower shop armories here.
No back-alley weapons dealers with crates labeled "Fragile."
Instead, Nox hunted.
---
Clothing was next.
Black on black. Not for theatrics, but for function.
He dressed in layers: thin tactical shirt, fitted thermal beneath. Cargo pants with multiple inner seams modified by hand the night before—slit along the inner thigh to hide short blades, stitched pocket linings for slip powder or wire.
Compression gloves.
Combat boots.
A matte-black hoodie under a military-cut jacket with reinforced shoulders.
Everything snug. Nothing flashy. No brand names. No symbols.
To the world, he looked like a tired student with bad fashion sense.
He packed his things in a neutral black bag. Inside: spare change of clothes, rolled tight. A burner laptop. A folded-down knife. Toothbrush. A flash drive on a cord wrapped around a false lighter. Cash, rubber-banded.
His first purchase was at a dingy pawn shop near the industrial district—a place where the city's forgotten dropped unwanted goods.
He examined every piece carefully.
A Glock 19—compact, reliable, 9mm.
Slight wear, but cleaned meticulously by the owner's hesitant hands.
Nox tested the trigger, the slide, the ejector pin.
Fifteen rounds plus one in the chamber.
No serial number obliteration, but he'd handle that later.
Next, a folding tactical knife with a black-coated blade.
Carbon steel, razor-sharp, serrated edge near the handle.
Handle wrapped in worn leather, perfect for silent kills.
He kept silent, measured every purchase in cash—untraceable.
---
He moved to an electronics surplus market.
There, in a stall lit by flickering bulbs, he picked up a burner phone with hardware kill switches, encrypted messaging apps pre-installed.
A laptop cooler, modified to fit extra batteries.
A signal jammer—small, portable.
Glock 19 Gen5 – 9mm, semi-auto, 15+1 rounds. Compact, silent.
AUG A3 Sniper Mod – bullpup design, long-range scope, titanium barrel.
Walther PPK – backup. Vintage. Quiet. Stylish.
Tactical switchblades (x3). Smoke capsules (x2).
Basic field kit: gauze, clotting agents, adrenaline pens, numbing spray.
Cleaning tools. Bulletproof undershirt.
Compact bug sweeper.
Modified phone with trap OS and kill switch
Everything black, matte, designed to stay invisible.
---
Next was the hardest: long-range firepower.
In the outskirts, an underground auction was whispered about among the city's fringes.
Nox attended, hidden beneath a cheap black hoodie and baseball cap.
The crowd was a mix of mercenaries, gangsters, and desperate collectors.
A silver-gray AUG A3 sniper rifle came up for bid. Bullpup design, lightweight titanium barrel, variable zoom scope. Perfect for silent elimination.
The bidding was ruthless.
Nox didn't win the first round.
Instead, he stalked the seller afterward.
A quick meeting behind a dumpster.
Crypto-less, cash-less, but he traded skill instead.
A promise: a hack for the seller's competitor's security system.
A breach guaranteed. No questions asked.
The rifle changed hands.
---
Back in the dorm, Nox installed his acquisitions with clinical care.
The Glock cleaned, loaded with hollow-point rounds.
The knife oiled and slid into a hidden sheath sewn inside his jacket.
The sniper rifle folded and hidden beneath the bed in a custom case.
---
His dorm room transformed slowly.
Secret compartments in the wardrobe, false panels behind the desk, a hidden floorboard under the bed—all packed with tools, weapons, forged documents, burner electronics.
His laptop was his command center.
His burner phone, his lifeline.
---
Outside, the world was loud and bright with college life—music, chatter, laughter.
Inside, Nox was a shadow waiting to move.
---
He lay back on the bed.
No friends. No attachments.
Just calculation.
Observation.
Patience.
The slow burn had begun.
---
End of Chapter Two.