The sun filtered in through a dusty dorm window, casting sharp light over the minimalistic, near-sterile setup on Nox's side of the room. The shared space—while seemingly ordinary to the untrained eye—carried layers of secrets. The left bed was Leo's: hospital-cornered sheets, black linen, books stacked in organized piles. On the right, Ash's bed, cluttered with paint tubes, brushes, sketchpads, and half-sipped energy drinks. And at the farthest end of the room, right beneath the wide dorm window, Nox's domain: a fortress carved out of necessity.
Three months had passed since the semester began. In that time, Nox had silently become a ghost and a fixture—his presence felt more than seen. His face, always masked or hooded, remained unknown. Even now, only those razor violet cat eyes gave away the storm beneath. Cold. Measured. Void.
Ash had tried—more than once—to bridge the silence. He wasn't loud or naïve, but curious, a little too curious for someone like Nox. During one of their shared lectures, Ash turned his sketchbook toward Nox, his voice tentative. "Got any ideas for the abstract installation? I'm stuck between steel and stone."
A pause. Then Leo, eyes still on his notes, replied dryly, "Go with steel. Stone's too forgiving."
Nox didn't lift his head. His fingers typed rapidly across a small, matte-black keyboard linked to a modified system inside his fake laptop. The silence he left behind was answer enough. Ash exhaled with a weak chuckle and shrugged.
Today, while the others made ramen at the shared table near the small electric stove, Nox remained perched on the rooftop ledge. Coffee steamed in one hand, cigarette in the other. His breath condensed faintly in the early autumn chill. Below him, the campus pulsed—students late to class, music in dorm windows, youth boiling with color. None of it touched him.
The body was different now.
Three months of brutal training: muscle confusion, isometric holds, extended range mobility drills, calisthenics at dawn, rooftop cardio at dusk, followed by sniper drills in a rented underground range. Flexibility had returned, muscle memory had locked in, and his endurance was nearing peak. Every day, every night, he pushed. No excuses. No softness. Not again.
He had grown into the 6'2" vessel, packing lean muscle, core strength, a flexible lower body made for lethal engagement. His reflexes sharpened, his marksmanship near flawless.
No longer a stray dumped into this world. Nox was back.
Later that night, while Leo and Ash sat cross-legged on the floor sharing takeout and mild conversation, Nox sculpted. His fingers moved like whispers, working a cold gray block of marble clay into sharp lines and abstract emotion. A war-torn angel, broken wings, one eye gouged. Ash couldn't help but stare.
"Didn't know you did art," he said cautiously.
No answer.
Leo's gaze flickered up briefly. He studied the sculpture, then Nox's hunched shoulders. He said nothing.
Hours Later: Underground Range
Through a nondescript backdoor behind a laundromat, down a metal stairwell guarded by two disinterested thugs, Nox walked into a cold steel sanctum. Concrete walls muffled sound. The air reeked of gunpowder and oil.
He laid out the new arsenal:
CheyTac M200 Intervention: .408 caliber sniper rifle. Carbon-fiber frame. Suppressed barrel. Custom scope with digital rangefinder and thermal overlay.
DSR-Precision DSR-1: Compact bullpup sniper. German precision. Balanced recoil, shorter barrel for tight extraction.
Sako TRG 42: Finnish make. Long-range champion. Bolt-action perfection.
Custom suppressors. Tactical slings. High-grade optics.
He loaded the CheyTac. The weight was perfect. Rested against the shoulder like an extension of his body. Breathing slowed. In. Hold. Out.
He pulled the trigger. A muffled thunder. The target—800 meters—shattered.
Again. And again. The dance of recoil, the cadence of breath, the stillness of mind. It wasn't practice. It was memory reignited.
Hours later, he wiped sweat from his brow and looked into the mirror near the exit—mask back on, hoodie pulled low. Only those violet eyes stared back.
Leo was being watched. Nox had intercepted a shadowy packet in the college server's traffic. Encrypted. Traced to a known syndicate. He didn't act. Not yet. He would observe. That was the agreement he had with himself for this world. Until it truly demanded his interference, he would not move.
But he would be ready.
By dawn, he was back on the roof, drinking his coffee. Smoking. The statue sat beside him, now missing a wing.
End of Chapter 12