Chapter 15: Back to the Mask
Nox's day started like clockwork. 4 a.m. wake-up. Cold rooftop air hitting his skin like a slap. The city below was still asleep as he moved through his routine—push-ups, pull-ups, shadowboxing. Muscle memory drove him. Not a thought wasted on anything but breath and form. Sweat clung to his shirt by the time he finished. A cigarette between his lips, his violet eyes tracked the shifting hues of dawn. Then, a shower. Bandages redone with precision. Mask on. Hat low. Black hoodie zipped. Ghost mode: reactivated.
By the time Leo rolled out of bed, a plate of eggs, toast, and sliced fruit sat waiting on the counter. Ash mumbled a sleepy thanks, assuming it was Leo's doing. Leo didn't correct him. He stared at the food quietly, feeling the silence Nox left in his wake like a knife between his ribs.
Classes resumed with little fanfare. Art studio projects flooded the second-year syllabus—canvas assignments, sculpture outlines, and color studies. Leo found himself trailing behind Nox between buildings, almost unconsciously. He caught glimpses: the way Nox moved like a shadow, how people instinctively stepped aside, how he never spoke unless absolutely necessary.
In the studio, Leo lifted a heavy canvas, moving toward Nox's station. "Need help?"
Nox didn't look up. "No." One word. Clipped.
Leo stood there for a moment, canvas in hand, then slowly turned back to his own workspace. Ash watched it happen with narrowed eyes.
"You two good?" Ash asked later, elbowing Leo as they cleaned their brushes.
Leo forced a small laugh. "Yeah. He's just... distant."
Ash shrugged. "He's always been distant. But you—you're acting like the guy I met first year. All bottled up again."
Leo didn't reply. He just focused on the streak of red paint that refused to blend right.
That afternoon, Leo stopped by a specialty market on the edge of campus. He bought a bag of Nox's favorite dark roast blend, the one he'd caught a glimpse of tucked in the back of the cabinet weeks ago. He added the specific cigarette brand—black box, red seal. He left them both neatly on the kitchen counter.
Nox came back around 7. He paused by the counter. Eyes flicked over the items. No reaction. He picked them up, opened a cabinet, and stored them without a word.
Leo watched from the hall. His chest ached.
Late that night, Leo stood on the balcony, phone in hand. The city was quiet beneath a blanket of stars.
"Father?" he said when the line connected.
"You're safe?"
"Yes."
A pause. Then, in that calm, measured voice, "The roommate who helped you… Phantom. Underground fighter. Freelance hits. Dangerous. Unreachable. If he helped you, it was a choice. But make no mistake—he's no ordinary protector. No one we sent could keep up with him."
Leo's grip tightened on the phone. "Why help me then?"
"I don't know. But I wouldn't test his goodwill again."
Leo hung up. His eyes lifted to the rooftop. A dim orange glow betrayed Nox's cigarette.
He thought: I thought I liked Ash. He was easy. Safe. But Nox... He saw everything and still acted. Even now, he won't let me thank him.
The next morning, Leo left another pack of cigarettes next to a small sketchbook with a note tucked inside: Thanks. For that night.
He didn't wait to see if it was taken.
Studio hours passed with cool air and colder silence. Leo sat close enough to feel Nox's presence but far enough that the gap felt like a canyon.
That evening, Leo finally caught him in the kitchen.
"I didn't say thank you," he began, voice tentative.
Nox didn't stop washing the mug in his hand. "Don't."
"I mean it. You didn't have to—"
"I didn't do it for you," Nox cut in, voice low behind the mask. "Don't make it sentimental."
He dried the mug, put it away, and brushed past Leo like he was air.
On the rooftop later that night, Nox stared at the skyline. Smoke curled around him.
It was better this way, she told herself. She's not safe anymore. I'm not safe if I let him get close.
He pulled the hoodie tighter over his scars. The bandage on his neck itched beneath the cloth. But it was nothing compared to the sting behind his eyes when Leo said "thank you."
That word—it made things real. And real was dangerous.
End of Chapter 50