04:00 AM.
The rooftop floor was still slick with condensation, but Nox didn't hesitate. He stepped into the cold with the same calmness he might've stepped onto a killing field. This was his domain. Steel-gray sky stretched above, stars fading beneath the slow bleed of dawn. His boots gripped the damp concrete as he moved into warm-up stretches—fluid, controlled, without wasted motion.
There were no distractions up here.
No whispers. No prying eyes. Just the wind.
Nox adjusted his weighted bands, locking the friction cuffs around his ankles and wrists. His hoodie was down, sweat already beginning to coat the nape of his neck. His breath fogged out in steady, invisible clouds. Every movement he made was clean, precise—optimized for lethal performance, not beauty.
Today's regimen was sharper.
The moment he detected the external packet trace on the university network last night, his training changed.
He hadn't meant to uncover it. He was skimming campus records—student attendance, staff work logs, class schedules—purely for situational mapping. It was routine.
But then he found the breach: a short burst of code hidden in registrar logs, encrypted, almost elegant in how it nested within safe traffic. A ghost script.
Not his style. Not staff-level. Not student-made. External.
And it wasn't tracking him.
It was watching Leo.
Nox didn't care. Not really. But he noted it—tucked the packet pattern into memory. Someone was watching the Mafia Prince.
That didn't surprise him.
What mattered more was who was behind it—and if they would notice him watching the watcher.
For now, he remained invisible.
Push-ups transitioned into weighted knuckle press drills. Sweat dripped from his chin to the rooftop as his fists ground against the concrete.
Fifty reps.
Then into altitude running drills, silent footfalls over the perimeter path. He kept to the shadows of the ventilation units, his breathing calm, mechanical. No emotion. No thought. Just endurance.
His core burned. His legs shook.
Good.
He wasn't there yet.
After 90 minutes, he cleaned every trace of his presence. Equipment packed and hidden. Sweat toweled. Skin wiped with cold, scentless solution. Rooftop sealed shut behind him.
By the time the dorm stirred, Nox was already dressed in clean layers. Tight black base shirt. Slim cargoes. Hoodie up. Mask on.
His face didn't exist in this world.
Downstairs, Leo sat at his desk, phone clamped to his ear. His eyes were tight, jaw tense. He didn't even glance at Nox. The call ended with a quiet, furious whisper in Italian. Something sharp and low.
Ash looked between them, clearly sensing the pressure in the air.
Nox moved past without acknowledging either of them.
He didn't eat in the dorm.
He didn't speak in the dorm.
He didn't belong in the dorm.
Rooftop again. Coffee. The real kind. Bitter and dark.
He watched the sunrise.
Class passed uneventfully. He sat in the same back-left seat. Same posture. Same non-response. Professors talked. Students joked.
Leo didn't smile once.
At noon, Nox disappeared.
By 1:10 PM, he was deep inside the old chemistry wing's maintenance shaft. A forgotten corridor of metal and heat.
He connected his laptop to a buried fiber-optic relay he'd uncovered on day four.
VPN masked. Encryption live. No tracking signatures.
He reached the dark netline and sent the pattern query from last night.
The reply came in seconds.
Unknown origin. IP clone shows defunct server in Prague. Military encryption hybrid.
He stared at it for a long moment.
Not amateur.
Possibly syndicate.
Possibly one of Leo's father's enemies.
Leo didn't seem aware.
Good. That meant the watchers were patient. Which meant he had time.
Time to train. Time to plan.
Time to evolve.
After classes ended, he visited the downtown underground. An old warehouse repurposed as a laundry facility—at least, to anyone not trained to see the shell.
He flashed a false ID. The man at the door didn't blink.
Backroom lights flickered overhead as he walked through rows of gear. He didn't need bullets today. He needed control.
He bought:
Two surgical-grade trauma kits
A fresh set of carbon-coated throwing knives
A silent compressor rig for his field rifle
Nutritional IV kits and black seal stim-patches
A new burner phone with embedded delay scrubber
Payment in Monero. No receipts.
He left through the fire exit.
By 7:30 PM, he was back on the rooftop.
Exhaustion bit at him, but he welcomed it. He installed the new compressor with practiced care. The rifle's structure slid open with a hiss as he loaded the silencer.
He adjusted his grip, sighted over the neighboring rooftops.
Steady.
He lowered the rifle.
Dinner was ramen. Again.
He didn't mind. The burner stove hissed as the water boiled. He added the powder slowly, mechanically, hands still in gloves.
Steam rolled up like smoke from a battlefield.
He ate without sound.
No music. No phone. No company.
Below, the world turned.
He watched windows glow to life. Students moved in packs. Laughter. Heat. Smiles.
He didn't need it.
He had routine. Survival.
And the growing certainty that someone was circling Leo like a wolf.
He drank his last coffee beneath the night sky. Clouds rolled in thick, heavy. It began to rain lightly.
He didn't move.
Water dripped from his hood, clung to his gloves. He watched the light of the world dim beneath rain and suspicion.
He would train harder tomorrow.
The ghosts weren't done moving yet.
End of Chapter Seven