The dorm room was spacious by most standards, yet the weight of silence pressed down on it like concrete. Three beds occupied three corners—Leo Morati Volkov's to the left, nearest the wall; Ash Navarro's opposite him to the right; and Nox Virility's, quiet and unobtrusive, was positioned directly under the wide window at the far end of the room.
The window was always cracked open. Cold morning air filtered through, tugging at the heavy blackout curtain. It was the only space that felt remotely alive in Nox's part of the room—everything else was clinical, black-on-black. The bed was always neatly made, not a wrinkle in the sheet. His two wardrobes were fortified from the inside, turned into reinforced compartments that could slide open into custom weapon storage with the correct pressure points. Leather sheaths, holsters, burner phones, signal disruptors, knives of every kind, even a compact sniper rifle in components, nested between jackets and folded shirts. His desk, too, had been hollowed and reinforced.
No visible evidence remained.
Nox made sure of that.
He was up every day before dawn, moving in silence. He never trained inside the dorm—never compromised. Each morning, he left for the rooftop at 4:00 AM. There, in the isolation above the city, he put his rebuilt body through ritual punishment: stretches that pushed his core strength to the edge, shadow sparring, weight routines using collapsible steel plates, plyometric pushups on concrete, and long, brutal rounds of self-resistance drills.
No warm-up. No music. Just the wind and the silence.
He returned to the dorm just before Ash or Leo stirred. His towel would be damp, his body steaming slightly from exertion. He showered next, fast and efficient, scrubbing sweat and blood off skin. His towel stayed black to hide stains. Then, fully clothed again—hood up, face mask on—he'd prepare breakfast in silence, usually something instant, something protein-heavy and functional. Coffee brewed on the makeshift table they all shared, near the electric heater. Nox always made his cup first, long before the others emerged.
By the time Ash stretched out of bed or Leo sat up with his phone already in hand, Nox had retreated to the rooftop again with a thermos of black coffee and a cigarette between his fingers. He never smoked in the room. Never let his scent linger. Leo never commented, and Ash hadn't realized yet.
When classes started that week, all three of them shared the same lecture schedule. The university had a core art and tech curriculum for freshmen. The three sat together by alphabetical accident, not design—Volkov, Navarro, Virility.
Ash tried, in his way.
"So... anyone have an idea for the sculpture sketch assignment?"
Silence.
Nox didn't respond. His violet cat-like eyes flicked up for a second from the notes he was handwriting in flowing, foreign shorthand before returning to the page. Leo didn't even look at Ash but replied with a clipped, "Not yet."
Ash sighed dramatically and leaned back. "Wow. Just the best group ever."
No one responded.
The air around them felt tense but not hostile. Ash was the only one trying. Leo was unreadable—cold, sharper than his age suggested, like someone raised under pressure. Nox was silence personified. Even seated, his posture was perfect. Mask and hood in place, those piercing violet eyes the only visible thing. Many students looked at him. None approached.
He became a campus myth before the first week was done.
Afternoon Routine
After lectures, Nox returned to the rooftop. There he ran surveillance on the college network from a laptop shielded behind a scrambling shell—his own build, patched with black-market code and military-grade encryption. He mapped the exits, scanned blind spots, installed keyloggers on faculty computers, and began tracking student data. Not for malice. For insurance.
Someone like him didn't live without leverage.
Meanwhile, Leo's movements were watched by his own family's security. Nox noticed the pattern: subtle men in casual jackets, parked cars that rotated too frequently, the same delivery driver too many times.
Leo knew he was being watched. He ignored it.
That meant he had bigger things to worry about.
Nox stored that information away. Not his problem.
Not yet.
Evening
Grocery shopping came next. Nox never bought much: ramen packets, protein bars, instant black coffee, bottled water, disinfectant, alcohol pads, energy supplements, painkillers. He avoided attention. Always wore gloves. Cash-only. His backpack was lined with carbon fiber layers and signal blockers.
The sun was starting to set by the time he reached the gym. Cardio and conditioning first. He didn't build bulk—he tuned performance. He was cutting this body like a weapon.
Later that night, under a black hoodie and black jeans, he walked through a quiet alley to a surgical supply dealer he found through dark web connections. The man didn't ask questions. Nox bought surgical kits, IV fluids, stitching needles, antibiotics, suture tape. All neatly packed.
He returned home before midnight, made sure no one saw him, and secured his purchases in his modified wardrobe compartments. Ash was already asleep. Leo was awake but pretending not to be, his back to the room.
Nox didn't care.
He went to the rooftop one last time. Lit a cigarette. Drank the last of his coffee. Let the cold night bite through the seams of his hoodie.
He looked up at the stars.
And wondered—not if this world was real.
But if it would end the same way.
End of Chapter 10