Nox – Somewhere in Guatemala, 03:17 A.M.
The air was thick with salt and steel, the kind of heaviness that clung to your skin long after the blood had dried.
Nox stood over the second target of the night. The body was slumped in a chair, still warm. Silent shot, precise placement, no mess.
Two more to go.
The knife was cleaned with quiet precision. Crimson smears vanished under the swipe of a black cloth.
He didn't think of Leo.
Not when he ducked between shanty rooftops. Not when he scaled the back of a collapsing church to get the best sniper angle on a corrupt arms dealer.
But when he passed a market stall in the slums—sun-bleached and humming with life—and saw a vendor selling old movie posters with cult classics in Spanish, he paused.
Leo would've dragged him into a long argument about how that version of "The Crow" was better than the American dub. And then forced him to watch it. With commentary.
Nox bought it.
He folded it carefully into his pack. Didn't think about it again.
Didn't think about the way Leo used to hum during weapon cleaning. Or how he used Nox's own shirts like they were his. Or how he'd lean close without fear, like they'd been in sync for years instead of months.
He didn't think.
He moved.
Silent and unrelenting.
The Phantom of Guatemala.
—
Leo – Villa Training Grounds, 5:48 A.M.
Sweat dripped down Leo's jaw as he launched into his morning routine. The punching dummy was already torn at the seams—he kept hitting until his knuckles burned through the wrappings.
No one pushed him anymore.
No low, bored voice correcting his form.
No judgmental silence after a missed kick.
Nox wasn't here, but Leo still heard him.
He wore one of Nox's shirts—oversized, black, the collar stretched from a knife accident. It smelled like worn cotton and gun oil.
The absence was sharp, but he didn't name it.
He trained harder.
Breakfast was quiet. Dominik pretended not to notice Leo setting two mugs down—one for him, one untouched across the table.
"Training hard?" Dominik asked, stirring honey into his espresso like it was poison.
Leo shrugged. "Gotta keep the routine."
Dominik didn't mention that Leo now woke up at 5 sharp, worked out, cleaned weapons, stitched his own bandages, and even sharpened Nox's backup blades.
Didn't mention how Leo sat in Nox's usual couch spot at night. Or watched TV with the volume down low, like he was waiting for someone's commentary.
Didn't say a word about how Leo paused before bed and looked at the door like expecting it to open.
No one said anything.
But Dominik and the old mafia boss had their own thoughts.
Because while Leo trained like a soldier, an undercurrent was boiling in the city.
Dominik – Surveillance Room, 8:30 P.M.
"War's coming," Dominik muttered, sipping from a champagne flute despite the hour.
The OG Boss beside him was in his robe, one brow raised. "Two mafia heads are planning a merge. That makes six territories turning into four. That boy has no clue what's circling."
Dominik sighed, eyes locked on the monitors. "He's focused on surviving without his reaper."
"Would be a shame if he didn't realize they're a unit now."
"A unit of dumbasses," Dominik grumbled. "Emotionally blind, but domestically inseparable."
The Boss chuckled. "What's the protocol?"
"We let them crash into it. They're best under pressure. Fire forges steel, right?"
"And Nox?"
"He's already handling death like bedtime tea. Let's just hope he doesn't take too long."
Nox – Outskirts of Guatemala City, 11:59 P.M.
Target sighted.
A wealthy businessman with a taste for human trafficking.
Nox watched through the scope, heart steady, breath shallow.
He pulled the trigger.
One more gone.
He thought about nothing.
Not Leo.
Not home.
Not the way silence now felt lonelier.
Just one more mission.
Just one more body.
Then back to routine.
Back to... whatever this strange, unnamed closeness had become.
End of Chapter 65