Chapter Text
The sharp click of heels echoed through the marble corridor, each step deliberate, commanding. A hush swept over the classroom as the door swung open with a soft metallic click. Inside, the murmur of students quieted to a restless hum, the way it always did before something important began.
She entered with an effortless poise that drew every gaze. Her hair was caught in a messy bun that somehow looked intentional, a pair of round glasses resting on the bridge of her nose. She couldn't have been older than twenty-seven, though there was something about her presence that made her seem older, sharper, like she carried both knowledge and scars no one could see. Her outfit was precise, stylish without being flashy, and her posture betrayed years of discipline.
Walking to the front desk, she lifted her hand once—just once. The room obeyed instantly, falling into silence.
"Good morning, class," she said, her voice calm, steady, and undeniably firm. "I am Professor Ashlyn, and I will be guiding you through Defense and History. Here, you will learn both the theoretical foundations of this industry and the practical skills needed for survival. Knowledge alone will not save you. Neither will strength. But the balance of both—mind and body—that is what will keep you alive."
A ripple of tension moved through the students. They straightened in their seats.
Her lecture began with structure. She introduced them to the complex network of the industry: its hierarchy of power, its wealth, the shadowy figures who controlled it, and the missions every trainee would one day be expected to face. Some missions were retrievals. Others were eliminations. All were dangerous.
But as she spoke, her tone shifted. She turned to the blackboard and scrawled a name across it, the chalk scratching like a whisper of warning.
"Nyx."
The letters hung heavy in the air.
"History remembers her differently," Professor Ashlyn said, facing the class again. "Some call her a criminal. Others, a savior. Most agree on one thing—she was unlike anyone the industry had ever seen."Whispers broke out at once. A hand shot up in the back row.
"Professor, was she real? Like... an actual person?"
Ashlyn's lips curved into something like a bittersweet smile. "Yes. Very real. And very dangerous."
Another student leaned forward eagerly. "Then tell us her story. Please."
She hesitated, eyes dropping to the desk as though weighing something heavy. For a moment, it looked like she might refuse. But then she exhaled softly, the weight of memory softening her voice.
"It's a long story," she warned.
One of the braver students grinned. "Professor, we've got time."The classroom chuckled lightly, but Ashlyn didn't. She only nodded, and when she spoke again, her tone had shifted entirely—lower, almost like she was carrying them into another world.
"Very well," she said. "Let me take you back to where it all began."
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Rain hammered against the pavement, the night alive with the sound of storms and something more sinister. She was just a girl then, running through the streets with nothing but a small bag slung over her shoulder. Inside were the remnants of her life: a few bills, a phone, a scarf. Her family's house was behind her now, the walls she had finally dared to stand against. She had walked out, and the door had closed forever.
Her shoes splashed in puddles as the downpour soaked through her uniform. Eventually, she collapsed onto a bench, curling in on herself, her tears lost in the rain. For a moment, the weight of loneliness pressed so hard she thought she might break.
It always started the same way: the sound of utensils scraping against porcelain, the weight of her mothers
sigh, and the pointed silence that came with every judgment they never had to say out loud. Her brother's voice echoed the clearest.
"Are you gonna cry again? " he sneered, lips curled into that familiar, condescending smirk. Something inside her had snapped then — not like a branch breaking, but like a dambursting. She remembered the scrape of the chair against the tile as she stood, the tremble in her hands, the heat in her throat. Why dont you all just shut the fuck up? she had said, voice louder than it had ever dared to be. Their silence had been a slap. Her mother looked horrified. Her father, cold and distant. Her brother? Still amused.
Im not broken, she had said. You are. The door slammed behind her, and the storm outside had met her with open arms — brutal, wet, and honest. The rain had been cold enough to burn. Each drop had
hit like a punishment, or maybe a baptism. She walked for hours, soaked through, shaking, but free in a way that felt terrifying and beautiful all at once.
She realised that she was in the middle of nowhere now, walking along a muddy roadside with only her bag slung over one shoulder and the stubborn ache of not knowing where to go next.
The rain hadnt let up, and the sky above looked like it was holding a grudge. She kept her head down, hood soaked through, boots squelching with each step. Until she heard it. Shouting. Loud and urgent. Then the unmistakable crack of a gunshot splitting through the storm.
Her heart seized. Instinct kicked in.
In her bag: a half-dead phone, no signal, no towers for miles; a thin wallet; three worn books; and the sharp, unshakable knowledge that she was utterly alone.
Then — shouting. Distant, then closer.
Sharp. Angry.
She froze. A beat later came the sound of tires on wet gravel, and then a gunshot cracked through the rain like lightning made of lead. She dropped without thinking, heart racing, lungs tight. From her cover behind a rusted-out truck, she counted at least seven figures — some running, some bleeding, most armed. A deal gone wrong.
Territory dispute.
It didnt matter. She didnt need the details. She just needed to survive. Her mind moved faster than her fear. She crawled low, using the rain and mud as cover, slipping into a ditch that curved toward the treeline. Her fingers brushed the spines of her books.
An idea flickered. She picked up a heavy rock from nearby heavy enough to draw attention angled her throw toward the opposite side of the road — away from where she planned to go and hurled it. The sound drew one of the men. She saw him shout something, weapon raised, running toward the distraction.
She didnt wait. She bolted in the opposite direction, silent as rain, sharp as instinct. The storm swallowed her whole.
....
Branches clawed at her sleeves as she slipped through the trees, the storm turning the forest floor into a swampy mess beneath her boots. Her breath came in short, controlled bursts. No panic, just calculation. Behind her, shouts echoed — one man barking orders, another cursing. They'd found the decoy. Good. She didnt stop to feel proud. She just moved. About a hundred meters in, the ground sloped down sharply and spat her out into what looked like the ruins of a barn. Burnt out, skeletal, long-abandoned — and perfect. She ducked inside, pressed her back to the damp wood, and waited, counting the seconds like
heartbeats. One. Two. Ten. No footsteps. No voices. Just the wind rattling the bones of a place long forgotten. She exhaled slowly and slid to the floor.
Then she saw it. A trail of blood.
It wasnt fresh — already darkening at the edges — but it was unmistakable. Leading deeper into the barn, half-covered by straw and shattered boards. She followed it carefully, each step silent, her pulse loud in her ears. Then, in the corner, barely visible behind a collapsed beam, was a body. No — a person.
Still breathing. Barely.
A guy. Near 30s. Soaked. Unconscious. And definitely shot. There was a gun near his hand, but no strength left in
him to use it. She stared for a second, weighing her options. Walk away. Hide until morning. Or—
"Shit! "she muttered, already digging into her bag. She pulled out one of her books, the one she never read but
always carried — thick pages, tight spine — and tore strips from the back cover to use as gauze. Her scarf became a makeshift tourniquet. It wasnt perfect, but it was enough to stop the bleeding.
Hours blurred until, at last, his eyelids fluttered. He looked at her through a haze of pain, voice rasping.
"You shouldn't be here... run."
She met his gaze stubbornly. "And let you die? Not happening."
He gave a faint, humorless laugh that dissolved into a cough. The argument didn't last—he was too weak.
By dawn, she had dragged him to a cheap roadside motel, scraping together enough cash for a twin room. She laid him on one of the beds, every muscle in her body aching, then collapsed on the other.
For the first time that night, silence reigned.