The dorm room was quiet in the early morning, faint beams of sun seeping through the blinds. Nox stood at the open window, a cigarette balanced between his fingers, his breath slow and sharp. The filter glowed faintly with each inhale, the smoke curling around the side of his mask. He hadn't slept in three days.
The body he had trained, tuned, hardened, was beginning to falter. His limbs ached slightly, a slowness settling into the joints. Nothing devastating—but Nox hated it. Weakness.
After a second shower, he moved through his workout. Push-ups, crunches, high-knee sprints. The usual. But today, there was a slight lag in his pace. His balance was off by a margin. And he felt it.
He didn't complain. He didn't show it.
When he returned to the dorm, Ash and Leo were both up, muttering about needing coffee. Ash, still in a half-sleep shuffle, laughed as he tugged on a hoodie over his curls. "Nox, morning! You do this workout thing every day, huh? That body of yours—steel and caffeine."
Nox didn't answer. Just walked to his desk, lifted the black thermos to his lips. Leo, as usual, didn't say much either, just gave a nod.
The three of them headed to their lecture. Professor Halden was waiting, the board behind him already filled with phrases: Oral traditions, urban myth, and modern folklore.
"There are legends built in every corner of this city," the professor began. "From the Screaming Staircase to the Weeping Hotel—these stories shape the city as much as architecture or history. But ask yourselves: what do these legends say about us?"
Ash leaned in to Leo, whispering, "You think the Weeping Hotel's real? Like, seriously haunted?"
Leo smirked. "If it is, I bet your ghost would annoy the spirits just talking too much."
Ash stuck his tongue out but kept whispering. "Don't act like you're not curious. You ever hear of the Black Garden myth? There's a whole archive about it online."
"No. But I can guess who spends hours on it."
They chuckled low. Nox sat silently beside them, eyes forward, but he caught every word. It was subtle, but something was changing. There was ease now between Leo and Ash. Not forced. Not awkward. A rhythm was starting to form.
After the lecture, Nox didn't linger.
He walked back to the dorm alone. The sun outside stung his eyes. He was furious with himself. His steps felt heavy. His spine pulled tight.
He had lasted longer before. Six days without sleep. Eight. This new body was supposed to be better, stronger, faster. He'd spent months perfecting it. Why was three days enough to slow him down?
When he hit his room, he didn't work. He didn't run perimeter checks. He didn't hack.
He slept.
Ash sprawled across the beanbag, digging into a bag of chips as he scrolled through a movie list. Leo sat on the edge of the bed, arms crossed.
"How about this? 'Urban Shadows'? Found footage, weird urban legends, kinda fits with the lecture."
Leo shrugged. "You're the curator."
Ash chuckled. "See? You do have a sense of humor."
The film started. A few scenes in, Ash asked, "Hey… does it freak you out sometimes? Being here, I mean. People like Nox around?"
Leo glanced toward the darker corner of the room where Nox lay on the far bed, motionless but breathing. "No. Not really."
Ash lowered his voice. "I don't mean it like that. He just… he makes me curious. Not in a bad way. More like, every time I see one of his projects, it's like it punches something deep. That canvas he did with the burning cathedral? Or his sculpture, the Fallen Angel? You don't make things like that unless you've felt something."
Leo didn't answer immediately. His eyes lingered on Nox's sleeping form. He wasn't entirely sure why, but there was a pulse of certainty in his chest.
His father's voice rang in his memory: "We had intel someone was helping clean up after you. Two dead. One crawling with shattered bones. Who's your shadow, Leo?"
He didn't answer then. He wouldn't now. But in the back of his mind, the answer had crystallized. It was Nox.
And oddly enough, Leo didn't feel afraid. During that trip, there was no ambush. No close calls. Just silence and safety.
Nox wasn't his enemy. He was a shield.
Twilight fell by the time Nox opened his eyes again. His body was stiff, but his mind was clearer. Sharper. The fire in his chest had returned.
He dressed in silence. Black shirt. Gloves. Mask. Down to the underground.
The fighting pit was alive with sweat, smoke, and shouting. Flesh against flesh. The wet thud of punches. Blood on concrete.
Nox didn't go for money. He didn't fight for glory.
This was punishment.
Three days of weakness had shamed him. This body—no matter how close it came to perfection—still betrayed him. Still faltered.
He fought three rounds, didn't speak a word, walked away with a cracked knuckle and bruised ribs.
But he walked away with control.
And upstairs, in the dorm above the city's veins, two voices laughed at a screen, still thinking he was asleep.
Nox listened.
And smiled, just slightly, behind the mask.
End of Chapter 28