The day began as it always did.
Nox rose at dawn, his movements fluid and deliberate, every motion calculated. Cold water splashed against skin that remembered pain far too intimately. The mirror didn't lie—6'2, a body honed through months of brutal training. A red belly button piercing gleamed faintly under the harsh bathroom light. He never saw the point in removing it. This body was never his to begin with. It belonged to the original. So he let it be—like a detail in a story he'd long stopped reading.
A deep scar curled around his left bicep, the result of a close-range blade thrown two cage fights ago. Newer still, a thin, almost surgical cut ran along his back—just to the right of the ink-black Roman thorned spine tattoo that climbed along his vertebrae like a punishment carved in ink. He hadn't bled much. The pain hadn't registered.
He brewed his coffee in silence, thick and bitter. A cigarette lit, the smoke curling upward as if reaching for the stars through the rooftop's empty air. The wind howled faintly. Nox exhaled slowly, violet eyes locked on the horizon, where the city still slept.
Routine was sacred. Discipline, armor.
After a series of brutal warmups, he dropped into morning training. Martial arts drills flowed into precision firearm dry runs, simulated reloads with weighted dummies in place of live rounds. Each motion repeated until the body responded without thought.
By 7:30 AM, he showered again, laced into another all-black uniform. Fitted pants, long-sleeved thermal, face obscured under his hood and half mask. Only his eyes—sharp, glinting violet—remained visible. The new face mask he'd acquired last week was matte obsidian, contoured perfectly to his jaw, like a second skin.
He left the dorm with unhurried steps.
At college, he passed through the usual lectures. Sociology of Systems. Political Influence and Design. Art Composition. In each one, he sat a measured distance from Ash and Leo. Leo, ever the coiled spring, seemed more relaxed these days—by a hair. Ash was a babbling presence, though even he had learned the boundaries.
Today, Ash nudged his sketchpad toward Nox during the break between lectures.
"We should sculpt the twins with mirrored poses, like—duality. I mean, that was your idea, right? Romulus and Remus."
Nox blinked. "Balance of power. One held the future; one held the end."
Leo, unbothered but attentive, nodded. "Then split the symbolism. Fangs on one. Wreath on the other."
Ash grinned. "I love that."
No further words were exchanged. But Nox's hand reached for his notepad, sketching quietly beside Ash's enthusiastic chatter.
By 3PM, lectures ended. He walked the city's underground quarter, taking his usual detour into the second-hand tactical shop tucked between a closed-down nightclub and a laundromat. With the recent payments from his freelance sniper missions—clean shots, high payouts—he had credit to burn.
He selected new black combat boots with ankle holsters, custom-stitched gloves for knife handling, and a thermal-guard trench coat with hidden buckles. Most importantly, he placed a private order at a gun artisan's hidden backroom.
A custom long-range sniper rifle.
Specs included:
Anti-vibration suppressor barrel
Foldable carbon fiber bipod
Enhanced digital scope with UV/IR layering
Modular chamber for both .338 Lapua Magnum and subsonic .308 rounds
Custom titanium skeleton frame with matte obsidian finish
It would take a month. Worth every coin.
By 6PM, he returned to the dorm, and placed the newly finished sculpture—a half-meter tall image of the twins, one hand gripping a wolf's paw piercing his own chest—on his desk. Ash had noticed it first.
"You finished it." He was nearly reverent.
Leo, brushing cigarette ash off his sketchbook, gave it a glance. "It's brutal."
"Truth often is," Nox murmured.
They made no fuss. Ash pulled out a projector. "We're watching something tonight. No arguments. It's a classic. Dumb comedy. Something about guys who get stuck in a time loop."
Nox didn't protest. His next cage fight wasn't until midnight. He had time.
He sat. Leo beside him, half-reluctant. Ash dimmed the room, the projector light washing the wall. The screen flickered.
Laughter bloomed—Ash's loud and whole-hearted. Leo, tight-lipped at first, allowed himself the occasional chuckle. Nox smoked in silence, the glow of his cigarette illuminating the edge of his mask. He didn't laugh. He didn't understand the humor. But he watched.
Watched the way Ash leaned forward, animated. Watched Leo, who'd once flinched at the sound of laughter, relax under its presence.
Watched as the warmth danced in shadows he couldn't reach.
He didn't belong in it—but he didn't look away.
It was the first full movie he had ever seen.
By 11:30PM, Nox rose, stretched his arms, and wordlessly stepped outside. The rooftop welcomed him. He exhaled the silence, flicked his lighter, and sparked another cigarette. Below the city hummed, unaware of his existence.
His duffel waited under the stairwell. Inside: wraps, brass knuckles, surgical kit, spare mask.
He didn't need reasons anymore. Just precision. Just the blade of survival honed to perfection.
As he turned toward the underground cage circuit, already scenting blood and sweat and fear, a faint echo rang in the back of his mind.
"You'll die with nothing if you don't let yourself feel."
Elya's voice. Her laugh. Her soft scoff when he once shyly admitted liking tragic novels with impossible love.
She was gone.
Nox didn't feel.
Only burned.
End of Chapter 21