The morning broke with muted clouds draped across the sky. Nox's rooftop routine began at 4:45 a.m. sharp. The taste of coffee—black, no sugar—hit his tongue as smoke from his cigarette trailed upward in the chilled air. The rooftop had become a silent temple. His body moved in perfect rhythm: handstand push-ups, blindfolded knife throws into wooden crates he'd carted up the fire escape, then meditation. His shirtless back glistened with sweat, showcasing the Roman thorned spinal tattoo curving along his spine, the slight shimmer of a red belly-button piercing catching first light.
He never questioned the body's accessories. This wasn't his original flesh, and he didn't care enough to remove the ornamental remnants of a boy who once lived.
By 6:30 a.m., he was back inside. A shower, fresh black combat clothes, a new matte face mask—modified for airflow and sound filtering—and then the descent into the dorm's shared kitchen space. Ash was humming again, pulling two instant ramen cups from the cupboard, hair a mess, hoodie wrinkled.
"Morning," Ash offered, hopeful.
Silence.
Leo entered seconds later. Sharp gaze, pressed uniform. He didn't speak either, simply acknowledging Ash's effort with a barely-there nod.
The day began.
In the art lecture hall, sunlight spilled across the polished floor. The students had lined up their sculptures along the walls, each standing beside their work. Ash looked nervous, biting his bottom lip.
"Professor?" Ash raised a hand. "I know I'm supposed to present our piece, but honestly... Nox did all the real work. Can he do it?"
The professor raised an eyebrow, then glanced at the hooded figure sitting cross-legged on a desk.
"If he's willing," she said.
Nox stood, a quiet echo in the room. All eyes locked onto him. Some hadn't heard his voice since the semester started.
He walked to the front. Behind him, the sculpture: Romulus and Remus, cast in resin and wire. One bore a wolf paw branded into his chest, the other a broken laurel crown. They stood back-to-back.
The applause after the final sculpture presentation echoed gently in the high-ceilinged studio, mingling with the soft hum of the late afternoon sunlight pouring through the tall windows. The professor stood at the front, eyes lingering on the centerpiece: two sculpted forms, Romulus and Remus, one hand-carved in perfect marble, the other etched with a wolf's paw over his chest. Their forms carried both divine elegance and a raw, primal sorrow.
What startled the students even more than the sculpture was the sculptor's voice. Nox, always silent, always masked, had spoken—quietly but with unmistakable clarity voice sharp but mellow .
"Creation," he began, standing with the barest shift of posture, hands still gloved, eyes half-shuttered behind violet lenses, "is not about perfection. It's about desperation. About need. Romulus and Remus were children abandoned by civilization, raised by nature. Their bond was blood, betrayal, and fate. One dies, one lives. That is the price of greatness."
Even Ash, who was used to the rhythm of Nox's silence, blinked in disbelief. A full speech. Leo offered a slow, thoughtful nod, recognizing something in those words.
When the final grading was given, the trio received perfect marks. Ash whooped. Leo gave a small smirk, rare but genuine. Nox, untouched by the praise, had already gathered his things before the applause ended.
Before the room emptied, the professor clapped twice for attention. "Before you run off, listen up. Next Friday, we head to the beach. It's not just for leisure. You'll be sketching, sculpting, or painting based on how you feel that day. Capture your current self. Not aesthetics. Not skill. Emotion."
Ash grinned. "Sun, sand, and sketchbooks. I'll take it."
Nox said nothing.
Back at the dorm, Ash was buzzing with energy. He returned with chicken in one hand and beer in the other. "Celebration, boys. Best grades, best art, and we get a break. Sort of."
Leo accepted a bottle wordlessly. Nox, who had just returned from a short trip into the city for supplies—another mask, another black top, and spare gloves—dropped his bag beside his custom desk.
"Come on," Ash tried, motioning toward the table. "At least one round?"
Nox pulled his hood over his head and walked toward the window. "Can't. I have work."
He left quietly. Behind the silence of his exit was the whisper of fabric brushing steel as he pulled on his coat and stepped into the night.
The warehouse was damp, metallic, and reeked of gunpowder. A former shipping depot now rigged with multiple lines of defense and encrypted digital locks, it was Nox's local sanctuary. Tonight, it served as both hacking den and prep room for his underground engagements.
He booted the secured console, slipping into a web of backdoors and dark sites. A high-level client had dropped a message:
"One shot. Two minutes. One exit. Payment already in transfer."
Coordinates loaded onto his encrypted phone.
Before the mission, he made his way to the underground cage arena. No lights. Just the sound of fists, grunts, and the occasional crack of bone. He stripped down to black joggers, letting his gloves fall into the locker. The cut on his bicep, healing from a previous fight, stretched as he rotated his arm.
The tattoo on his spine—thorny Roman script—seemed to pulse under the flickering ceiling lights. No one commented on the red piercing at his navel. No one dared.
The opponent was taller, heavier, but slower. Nox ducked under a right hook, stepped in, and cracked two ribs with an elbow. He didn't blink even when blood splattered across his cheek.
An hour later, bruised and silent, he left with a new scar along his right shoulder.
By 4 AM, he was back at the dorm. Everyone asleep.
He climbed to the rooftop. Cigarette lit, coffee thermos warm against his palm. He exhaled slow. Above him, stars blinked faintly. He didn't know why he was in this novel. Why this body. Why this world.
"Just a story," Elya used to say, curled beside her bunk in the dark. She mocked her favorite novels, the ones about tragic lovers and pain that couldn't be healed. "You always read the ones with endings that hurt. You never liked happiness."
She laughed at her. Teased her. Then trusted her.
And she killed her.
Because the Organization found her.
Because ahe kept her location a secret.
She had held her baby in his arms. A tiny thing. Smiling.
The bullet had gone through both of them. One clean shot.
He inhaled smoke, suppressing the scream behind clenched teeth.
This body—6'2", strong, flexible, almost perfect now—was not his. But it carried the weight of that past.
And tonight, it would carry a rifle.
Before dawn, Nox checked the custom weapons shipment. A new long-range sniper system: .338 Lapua Magnum precision rifle, carbon-fiber skeleton stock, sound-suppressed, with a Schmidt & Bender PM II scope. Lightweight. Deadly. The best.
He ran gloved fingers along the metal. It felt like home.
Mission time: 06:15.
One shot.
One breath.
Then vanish like a ghost.
The world had stories to tell.
He would watch them unfold. And kill when needed.
Always watching. Never known.
End of Chapter 22