The weekend settled in with a moody haze cloaking the sky above the campus, gray and heavy, like a prelude to something unseen. Nox's day began with precise familiarity. The alarm didn't wake him—his body did, clockwork efficient. He rose silently, tying back his dark hair before shrugging on his hoodie. The mask went on next, black with subtle filters embedded at the sides, custom-made to conceal and breathe. A quick glance at the mirror caught the hint of a red glint: the belly button piercing that remained, untouched, just like the thorned Roman spine tattoo stretching down his back.
He brewed coffee with surgical accuracy, the scent coiling through the shared dorm air before any of the others had even stirred. A cigarette followed, smoldering between his fingers as he stood on the rooftop, wind tugging at his clothes, eyes scanning the empty city like a sentry waiting for ghosts.
Back inside, the day held no lectures—Saturday. Instead, Nox sat cross-legged in the far end of the dorm room under the window. The sketching materials were spread out across his desk: fine charcoal, graphite, reinforced paper scrolls, inks of varying shades. He tested each with mechanical fluidity, the tools extensions of his hand. The Romulus and Remus sculpture rested nearby, finished and stored in its leather-padded box. Now came the sketches they'd need for the next assignment: "Draw your emotional state during the trip." The absurdity almost made him scoff. But he drew anyway.
Across the room, Ash rolled out of bed in a heap of blonde curls and oversized pajamas. Leo was already halfway dressed, his black shirt crisp, hair damp from a quick shower. They exchanged their usual morning murmurs.
"Man, it's weird not having to run to lecture," Ash said, stretching. "Should we get breakfast together?"
Leo looked up briefly. "Later."
Ash's eyes flicked toward Nox. "What about you?"
Nox didn't respond until his pencil paused. "I have food."
And that was that. No more questions. Ash muttered something about getting pastries and shuffled out, dragging Leo with him.
With silence reclaimed, Nox slipped into a light hacking session. His target: the school's newly listed faculty members. The records looked clean, but there were inconsistencies—timestamps too polished, metadata too sanitized. Someone was hiding names, backdating entries. A name popped out, tied to Leo's core classes. Another was registered under external security detail.
So. Leo was under new watch. Tighter chains.
Nox leaned back, cigarette dangling from his lips. He hadn't asked to be dragged into this novel, but he understood now that Leo wasn't just the protagonist. He was a moving target.
Later that evening, Ash returned, arms full of food and beer. "Movie night, anyone? We've got a historical drama for the assignment. Just need eyes and comments."
Nox didn't move, but he didn't say no either. So when Ash pulled down the small projector and set up cushions and snacks on the floor, Nox took his place against the wall, legs folded, eyes dark and unreadable. Leo joined without comment, sitting opposite Nox.
Halfway through the film, Leo held up a cigarette. "Lighter?"
Nox didn't speak. Just passed it.
Ash chuckled between scenes. "I'm just saying, if this guy had one ounce of common sense, he wouldn't have marched into Rome with no backup."
Leo grunted in agreement. Nox watched in silence, his mind processing tactics, hidden lines of betrayal, false allegiances in the story. For him, it wasn't fiction. It was memory. Flashes of Elia, the only person who had laughed at his reading habits. "You'd cry for a couple of guys dying for love? Tragic." She had said it with a grin, the same grin she wore when she died by Nox's hands.
The movie ended.
They stood, Leo stretching his back, Ash pulling food out from the warmer. "We should eat together more often," Ash said.
Nox didn't answer. He slipped away with ghost-like silence, hoodie up, mask on.
The streets welcomed him with neon grime. Down a side alley, he entered a cage fight pit he hadn't tested yet. The rules? There were none. Fists, blades, brass knuckles—it was all fair game.
His match was brutal. A former soldier, maybe, or a cartel enforcer. Their blades met skin. Nox didn't flinch. Not when his chest split under a graze, not when his side caught a knee that could've shattered a rib. He moved like memory, danced like precision. The fight ended with blood under his boots and a silent audience watching the masked devil exit without victory cheers.
Back in his hidden storage locker across the city, he unwrapped his new toy: a custom-made long-range sniper rifle. The matte finish absorbed light like a void. Digital scope, recoil dampener, dual-mode silencer, custom grip. It purred when assembled, and Nox smiled—not with joy, but with function. Tools were better than people.
By the time dawn curled on the horizon, Nox stood again on the rooftop, another cigarette burned low in his hand. Smoke curled upward, mixing with breath and sky.
A weekend well spent.
War was always waiting.
End of Chapter 23