Nox didn't look back.
The jungle greeted him with humidity and the distant thrum of danger. Guatemala wasn't foreign to him. It breathed like other heat-wet countries, all mud and blood and secrets in the trees.
He had five targets. All men. All deserving.
The local fixer gave him a dusty room above a closed market stall and a radio that only worked when it rained. He took it without comment, assembled his gear with gloved precision, and reviewed maps by candlelight.
Routine kept his mind quiet.
He didn't think about Leo. Not actively. Not consciously.
But when he passed a street vendor selling leather bracelets with burned-in initials, he paused.
L.E.
He bought one. Stuffed it in his pack without looking at it again.
The next day, he saw a blade curved in a way Leo would admire—archaic, handmade, all flare and function. He didn't buy it. But he touched it. Twice.
By week two, he'd completed three of the five hits. Efficient, clean, no chatter left behind.
At night, he stared at the ceiling of his temporary hideout and smoked. Not to relax. Just to fill the space.
A fruit stand reminded him of Leo refusing papaya. A black dog sleeping on a rooftop reminded him of Leo's posture when he was half-listening. A patch of crimson bougainvillea made him pause longer than he should.
He wasn't thinking about Leo.
He was observing data. That's all.
When he killed the fourth target, he cleaned his knife slower than usual. Halfway through, he blinked, then checked the time.
Leo would be finishing training now. Or maybe complaining about Dominik's latest emotional outburst. Or maybe sitting by the pool, head tilted like he always did when waiting for him to light his cigarette first.
Nox blinked again.
His heart hadn't done that weird thing in two days.
B: Leo - Villa Life
The days without Nox felt like static.
Not pain. Maybe loneliness.
Just noise in the wrong frequency.
Leo didn't say much about it. He stuck to his schedule like glue, each hour divided by sweat, steel, or smoke. But the villa noticed.
He wore Nox's shirt on day four. The one Nox left draped over a chair, half inside out. It smelled like cologne and gunpowder.
Leo didn't care about the scent. That's what he told himself.
It was just easier than picking a new shirt.
He kept Nox's mug on the counter, too. Didn't use it. Just... didn't move it.
Every morning, he trained alone. Same drills. Same time. Same playlist. He caught himself repeating Nox's offhand corrections aloud, like muscle memory.
"Loosen your grip. No, not that loose. You're not tossing confetti."
Dominik offered him new sparring partners. Leo declined.
Every evening, he watched the same news segments Nox used to mutter at. Once, he responded to one without thinking, "You're gonna say it's a cover-up."
Silence answered him.
He didn't think about it.
He missed him.
He just adjusted. That's all.
Wore the same schedule like a second skin. Cooked half-portions without thinking. Trained with the same fire. Even smoked outside, two cigarettes held out before remembering he was the only one home.
Dominik kept watch from afar. Leo's father said nothing, but he moved slower, like waiting for a punchline that never came.
Routine kept Leo sane.
But every now and then, he caught himself flicking the chain of a crimson heart charm—Nox's—left behind on the sink.
It wasn't sentiment.
It was habit.
Or so he told himself.
They weren't in love.
They were... teammates.
With very synchronized breathing.
End of Chapter 64