A Man's Perspective Novels & Stories

I turned. The gruff man from before—thick shoulders, faded flannel shirt, stubble shadowing his jaw—had moved to the seat across the aisle. His eyes were bloodshot but sharp, the kind of look people got from too many graveyard shifts and not enough sleep. Or too many rounds on a death bus. He jerked his chin toward the window. “Just more dead worlds out there. You don’t want to visit without an invite.” My throat clicked. “Dead worlds?”

The man’s cell was in a corner of the room. Regan and the other two men paused, letting me go ahead of them. I looked into the cell and saw a frail looking man. His skin was bruised and his nose appeared to be bleeding. His eyes were closed and if not for the steady rise and fall of his chest, one would’ve assumed he was dead. A fresh wave of anger washed through me as I saw him lying there. For as long as I can remember ,we’ve never had a reason to go to war or have trouble with humans. But the recent events are proof that something really bad is cooking sand this man here might just be our only way to stop it before it consumes us.

What type of man is that? ....

"I don't give a rat's ass if you did it for your unborn generation, I want you to get the fuck out of my room before I lose it." Like the flip of a switch, his countenance changes to one of bored confidence as he slips his hands inside his pockets. He's wearing all black. Black jeans, black tee, and black combat boots with a black leather jacket. This is the man I know, well. . .the man I thought I knew. "Have you looked at the pictures yet?" I huff loudly. "So what - you drop a few pictures of a man holding a gun on a roof and then what? What am I supposed to do about that?"

“I’ll give you time.” Then he walked out. The third room. Marcus entered this time, he sat down slowly. Calm, quiet and different from both of them. He didn’t speak immediately, he just looked at the man. Seconds passed. Then a minute. The man shifted slightly, he was uncomfortable. Marcus finally spoke. “You’re not the first.” The man frowned. Marcus continued, “And you won’t be the last.” Marcus leaned back. “This operation… it’s bigger than you.” The man’s expression changed and Marcus saw it.

-3rd person pov- A man navigated the streets, his face concealed by a stolen piece of cloth, making his way past the surrounding buildings. He moved with evident difficulty, nearly limping, clutching his side as low grunts of pain escaped his lips. It was clear he was suffering.

**Stella's POV** The man is enormous in the way that some Alphas are enormous — not just physically but atmospherically, the kind of presence that arrives before the person does. Broad through the shoulder, dark-eyed, moving with the particular unhurried authority of someone who has never once had to announce himself in a room. He stops at the edge of the grounds and watches the chopper with his arms folded. He does not look surprised. He looks annoyed. I step out.

A faint white scar cut through his left eyebrow, breaking up an otherwise textbook-handsome face. The man wasn't smiling. Wren got the immediate sense that smiling was a currency this guy didn't spend on strangers. Right now, he was looking at Wren like Wren was a piece of litter that had chosen to blow into his path. "Are you finished," the man said. It wasn't a question. The voice was so flat it could have iced over the floor tiles. Wren blinked."Excuse me?" "You were kneeling in the middle of a walkway." The man adjusted his glasses with two fingers. It was a tiny, precise motion, like the interaction was costing him patience he couldn't spare. "People need to get through.

“I watched them leave. They’re inspecting the perimeter, far from the entrance. You’re alone for… at least twelve minutes.” Her stomach dropped. He had been watching long before she noticed. She swallowed hard, her voice trembling. “What do you want?” The man stepped out of the deeper shadow, and finally—finally—she saw his eyes. Cold. Sharp. Empty. The kind of emptiness belonging to men who carried out orders without hesitation. Men who didn’t fear consequences. Men who didn’t fear Adrian. “Don’t worry,” he said. “I’m not here to hurt you. Not today.”

“What’s the endgame?” The man doesn’t hesitate. “To step into your place.” The room goes still. Marcus lets out a low breath. “That’s not how reality works.” The man glances at him. “Reality is shaped by perception.” Marcus opens his mouth—then stops. Because that part is true. Adrian doesn’t move. “Perception doesn’t give him my company.” “No,” the man agrees. “But it gives him access. Influence. Control.” Adrian’s expression hardens. “You’re assuming people won’t notice.”