The echo of final exams faded into the hum of summer. The first year of college was officially over, and the campus emptied fast—suitcases wheeling down dormitory halls, calls echoing from anxious parents. But in Dorm 3B, the trio remained.
Ash was the first to ask it, voice casual as they packed the last of their classwork into the shelves. "You guys leaving for the summer?"
Leo didn't look up from his phone. "Can't. Family stuff."
Nox, already dressed for the day—combat pants, oversized black shirt, mask securely on, hat low over his violet eyes—shrugged. "No."
Ash tilted his head, eyebrows up. "No reason?"
"I prefer quiet," Nox said simply.
Ash grinned. "Same. Besides, the beach is closer here. I'm not going home just to stare at the same walls."
They had grown into a rhythm. Every morning, Ash and Leo would wake to find Nox already up, showered, dressed, and usually finishing a cup of black coffee. The burner always left warm—the small gesture unspoken. Sometimes, breakfast sat nearby: spicy onigiri for Ash, honey-filled toast for Leo. They never saw Nox eat. Never saw him without the mask. Only glimpses of the studs on his ears and the intensity of his eyes.
It had started to feel normal.
That morning, Leo sat at the table sketching ideas for a personal sculpture project while Ash lounged across the sofa, legs kicked up, scrolling through movie trailers. "How about this one for tonight? It's about a cursed painter who gets trapped in his own canvas. Creepy but stylish."
Leo gave it a lazy glance. "Not horror. Not tonight."
Ash clicked his tongue. "Fine. Fantasy noir it is."
From the open window, Nox listened, silently lifting a weight bar across his shoulders on the rooftop, muscles tight but precise. The wind brushed past him. He found peace in repetition.
Later that afternoon
The trio settled into the shade of the art studio, surrounded by dusty tools and bags of clay. Their sculpture exam was self-directed. One final statement to reflect the year.
Ash's piece was already in formation—a pair of hands reaching upward from the sand. "It's about transition. Growth. From being pulled down to breaking through."
Leo sculpted a fox surrounded by broken mirrors. "You're making yours so literal," he commented without looking at Ash.
"And you're being moody," Ash replied.
Nox hadn't started yet. He stared at a block of untouched clay, arms folded. Then, as if a switch flipped, he began.
Leo whispered, nudging Ash, "Watch this. He's always fast. Precise."
They did. Ash, quietly amazed, watched as Nox's hands shaped the clay into a trio of birds caught in mid-flight. One soared. One descended. One stood still. The professor passed by once, then again. He didn't say a word, only nodded with tight respect.
As dusk crawled in, the group settled for dinner—takeout spread across the table. Ash fumbled with chopsticks, Leo corrected his grip, and Nox lingered on the rooftop, smoke curling from between his fingers as he leaned against the rail, staring into the horizon.
They're becoming friends.leo will start creating his buble of peace.
He thought it idly, watching Leo glance at Ash during their debates over whether a phoenix was more symbolic than a griffin. The novel's pacing was there—early conflict, growing ties, the slow protection arc of the cold character warming up.
But he stayed separate. Observing.
Nightfall
Ash had started a new game, hunched forward with a controller, mumbling tactics to himself. Leo sat back on the couch with a book—Middle Eastern Symbols in Post-War Sculpture—his eyes only half on the page. He glanced up as the bathroom door creaked open. Nox passed by, towel on his neck, damp shirt clinging to his skin from the rooftop training.
Their eyes met. Just a second. Enough.
Leo looked back down.
You were the one that helped. It doesn't make sense but You didn't just protect me. You sent a message.
The memory of his father's voice rang in his ear:
"Two bodies. One left breathing—but barely. You're being protected, Leo. Find out who."
He didn't ask. He didn't need to. He knew.
Midnight
The silence of the city swallowed the world whole. Nox crouched in a rusted-out elevator shaft, a sniper rifle in hand, scope flickering in infrared. His target—an ex-politician now a rogue operative funneling weapons into Leo's city—was attending a private meeting.
The shot was clean. One breath. One bullet.
He vanished before the blood dried.
An hour later, he sat at a corner terminal deep underground, hacking through data threads, pulling files from black-market servers and tracing movements of unaffiliated mercenaries near Leo's district. His gloves tapped against the keyboard like a second heartbeat.
At 4 a.m., he returned. Silent steps. Mask still on. The dorm quiet.
Ash had fallen asleep on the couch mid-game, controller slipping from his hands. Leo was asleep on the bed, book open on his chest.
Nox stood there, eyes on both.
Then he walked to his corner, peeled off his gear, and let himself lie down for the first time in two days.
Tomorrow, they would wake. Ash would joke. Leo would observe. Nox would remain the constant shadow between them.
And the story would go on.
End of Chapter 31