The sun was only a suggestion—thin light pressing at the window's edge like an unwanted guest.
Nox sat upright, spine straight on the edge of his bed. Eyes open. Already dressed. Already wired.
Black joggers. Sleeveless hoodie. Compression shirt tight across his torso, hiding the cut lines of lean, lethal muscle. No frills, no logos. Just clean black silence.
He tied his boots. Slow. Controlled. Tension across his knuckles as the laces drew tight.
Then, with gloved hands, he moved to the portable burner on the corner shelf. A collapsible steel rack, secured with a lock when unused.
He flicked it on.
The kettle clicked once—hissed.
It wasn't about the taste.
It was about ritual.
Steam rose. The black instant coffee powder dissolved into swirling heat, thick and bitter. He sipped slowly. No sugar. No milk. Just the taste of bitter wakefulness.
He stared ahead into the stillness of the dorm.
Two other beds were across from him. Leo's side was a mess of designer jackets and polished shoes. Ash's—neat but warm, a half-built drone blinking silently from its charging dock.
Nox's side? Stripped.
Deceptively barren.
But underneath the desk: a false panel. Inside the wardrobe: wall-mounted sheath slots.
Under the mattress: shadow-thin compartments.
His fortress.
The mug emptied. He washed it and slid it back to its place with mechanical precision.
Step Two: Financial Chains Cut Clean
His first job in this world was securing anonymity through legitimacy.
The college was real. The tuition, real. And he had no intention of drawing eyes with debts.
The bursar's office opened at 8:00. He was there at 7:55.
The line was short. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. The clerk behind the desk wore glasses too large for her face and had purple nail polish chipped on the corners.
"Name?" she asked without looking up.
"Nox Virility."
The name sounded alien still, but he said it cold. As if it had always belonged to him.
He handed over a thick envelope—cash. Clean, small bills, no traceable source. Earned through three unregistered black-market hacking gigs from the local darknet.
"Full semester?" she asked, raising an eyebrow.
He nodded.
Receipt printed. He took it, folded it, slid it into his coat. He left without a word.
Step Three: Campus Mapping
He walked the outer loop of the campus on foot.
Twice. Once clockwise. Once against.
He memorized every alley between buildings. Every corner where the lights flickered. Every roof with loose security.
He charted exit points in his head.
Blind zones. Camera dead angles. Security patrol gaps. Power nodes.
The school had three primary exits. One was front-facing, guarded. Two were maintenance tunnels—one rarely used, always locked. The other opened once every Thursday for garbage disposal.
He marked them mentally.
Wrote nothing down.
He took photos with his burner, off-angle and blurred enough to look accidental.
Later, those would be processed, enhanced, and stored in his encrypted drive.
A janitor pushing a cart passed him.
He nodded.
Nox moved on.
Step Four: Infiltration
The library had a computer lab with outdated firewall protection.
The network monitor was lazy—busy browsing cat videos.
Perfect.
Nox sat, opened the script he'd written the night before.
Payload launched.
He infiltrated the college's staff database, layered through backdoors he carved silently.
He watched the list unfold:
Professors.
Adjuncts.
Security.
Maintenance.
Counselors.
Each file copied, scanned, analyzed.
He flagged the names with gambling debts. Drug problems. Affairs. Emotional instability.
Every crack in a person was a grip point.
Within twenty minutes, he had shadow copies of faculty credentials and embedded his own fabricated "Nox V." staff profile buried under administrative layers.
Access level: IT assistant.
No one would question that.
Not until it was far too late.
He wiped the traces, encrypted the payload's shell.
Shutdown.
He stood and walked away.
Step Five: Groceries, Ramen, and Caffeine
There was a corner market two blocks off campus, tucked beside a laundromat and a vape shop.
The air inside smelled like plastic wrap and sour air conditioning.
He picked with precision.
Eight packs of premium instant ramen—high protein.
Twelve canned black coffees—unsweetened.
Trail mix. Energy bars.
A collapsible portable stove, battery-powered.
Caffeine pills.
Surgical gloves.
Bandage packs.
He paid in cash.
The cashier, a student with green-dyed hair and a lip ring, tried to make small talk.
He stared once.
The words died in her throat.
Bagged. Carried in silence.
Step Six: Body Conditioning
The campus gym was open 24/7.
He entered with the silent beep of the student ID card.
No one there. Just hums of treadmills, racks of iron, mirrors gleaming like still water.
He began the routine:
Pull-ups to failure.
Weighted squats.
Deadlifts.
Core rotations.
Neck bridges.
Each rep clean. Each motion precise.
No wasted energy.
Only movement toward control.
After 90 minutes, he ended with static stretches and a meditation cooldown.
His body trembled—but only slightly.
It was getting easier. Stronger.
He was tuning this vessel to lethal frequency.
Step Seven: Midnight Refill
He wore a plain black hoodie, low cap, gloves.
He took the train to a part of town that hadn't been polished by college brochures.
He passed three tattoo parlors, two broken lampposts, and a corner where men whispered trades in voices too low for casual ears.
He entered a door marked only by a black handprint.
Inside: surgical lights, steel tables, clean cases.
A black market medical supply front.
He placed the order:
3 suture kits
2 doses of topical anesthetic
Butterfly bandages
Scalpel blades (No. 11, No. 15)
Sterile gloves
Burn cream
1 high-pressure wound seal
He paid with half the cash left.
No one asked his name.
He returned just before 3 a.m.
Everything placed in labeled compartments in his desk—under false bottoms.
He stood before the mirror, bare to the waist, skin shining with cold sweat and a faint red line from the rifle strap earlier that week.
This body was raw.
But it would be perfect.
Tomorrow, he would see the novels protagonists, romates turned to lovers turned to a sad love story, and a new scar for the mafia prince.
But tonight, the ghost lay down in silence—watching, waiting.
End of Chapter Three