Nox had always been a creature of habit and precision. Since waking in this unfamiliar body months ago, he had made it his singular purpose to refine it into the perfect vessel. With training regimens that pushed the body beyond normal thresholds, he had achieved results others might deem impossible. His days started before the sun rose, stretching atop the rooftop, its surface scarred by the steel toes of his boots and the sharp impact of bodyweight drills.
His mornings were grueling. Resistance bands lashed around his limbs as he pulled his form through impossible positions, testing flexibility, speed, and strength. Cold showers followed, the icy sting a reminder of discipline. The steam from his morning coffee mingled with the smoke of his cigarette, both swirling like ghostly fingers into the city's bruised dawn.
Between lectures, he moved like a shadow—silent, alert, unseen but never unseeing. His instructors quickly learned not to call on him; his cold violet gaze had a way of quieting even the most arrogant. His desk remained untouched by idle chatter. The shared dorm room had settled into an unspoken routine—Ash's casual attempts at friendliness, Leo's stoic distance, and Nox's ghostlike existence.
By the third month, Nox had deemed the body acceptable. Not perfect—perfection was an illusion—but sufficient. He moved with liquid precision. The muscles that coiled beneath his skin was no longer new. It responded to his commands with ease, absorbing shock, redirecting force, striking clean and hard. His abs, hard and sleek, didn't flex unnecessarily. His reflexes were tuned. The eight-pack wasn't for show. It was armor.
His nights were a symphony of steel and silence. At the underground range he had found on the edge of the city's dark sector, he tested himself against distances, wind direction, time lapse, and noise simulation. His weapon of choice? A handcrafted bolt-action sniper, custom chambered in .338 Lapua Magnum, with a carbon-fiber chassis, suppressor mount, and a Vortex Razor HD Gen II scope. Each bullet was hand-loaded for precision. Alongside it, a DMR with a folding stock and an integral bipod. Lightweight, efficient. In his arsenal locker: tactical folding knives, a hidden spring-loaded wrist blade, a collapsible staff, and his preferred sidearm—a suppressed HK USP .45 with night sights and a custom titanium slide.
He practiced fast assembly, reloading blindfolded, engaging targets in under 3 seconds. And still, it wasn't enough.
Not until the mission.
Ash's Perspective
Three months in, and Ash Navarro had learned two things: Leo Morati rarely spoke unless necessary, and their third roommate—Nox—was a living question mark.
Ash had tried everything. Casual greetings, shared ramen packs, late-night jokes, even asking them both about the stupid art assignment. Leo sometimes responded with a monosyllable or a clipped phrase. Nox? A blink. Maybe. But mostly silence.
He watched the way Nox moved. Too silent, too still. The way the guy sat, legs folded, back straight, hands too still on a mug of steaming black coffee. Ash had never once seen his full face—hood up, mask on. Only those eyes. Violet. Sharp as razors. Cold.
Sometimes Ash thought he saw something almost feminine about him—too graceful, too balanced. But then, who was he to judge?
He'd caught glimpses of Nox sculpting once, making something on their collapsible table while Leo and he had dinner. A Grecian head from dense clay. Beautiful. Dark. Raw. The same hands that never touched anything gently worked with the delicacy of a surgeon.
Ash felt stupid, trying to talk to someone who never responded. But he kept trying. Because he was curious. Because sometimes, Leo actually answered.
Baby steps.
Leo's Perspective
The pressure was building. The messages from home had changed tone. Less check-ins, more veiled warnings. His father's people were watching. Enemies were watching. Too many eyes.
Leo Morati Volkoc didn't trust people. It wasn't paranoia if it was true.
He had agreed to come to college not for education, but because the heat had gotten too heavy in his father's circles. Too many attempts, too many traps. He needed a place where people couldn't reach him so easily, and this elite campus had security, neutrality, and enough influence to keep certain names away.
But safety was a lie. He knew it in the way he felt watched, even when he wasn't. In the way silence fell around him.
Ash, at least, was consistent. Bright, loud, too talkative—but harmless. Good kid.
Nox, on the other hand, was something else. Leo felt it in his bones.
That roommate wasn't just quiet. He was trained. Every movement was measured. Leo had tried watching him once. The guy didn't breathe unless he had to. No wasted gestures. No expressions. The most control Leo had ever seen in a civilian.
He didn't know what Nox was. Assassin? Ex-military? A sleeper?
And he was dangerous. Leo knew dangerous when he saw it.
He wasn't stupid enough to confront it. Not yet. But he was watching.
Because while everyone thought Leo was playing student, he was hunting the hands that tried to gut his family from the inside.
And if Nox became a threat—he would be eliminated.
End of Chapter 13