Blade Trench Coat Novels & Stories

Maya's POV The Still collection hung on the racks in the showroom. Eight pieces. The charcoal coat in the centre, the collar high and close to the neck, the back released, the shoulders structured the way a building was structured, every seam bearing weight. The other pieces flanked it, two blazers, three skirts, a pair of wide trousers, a second coat in a lighter grey. Elena had steamed them that morning while I checked the labels. The labels said STILL in small black letters on a cream background. The name had come three days after the coat was finished, not from thinking but from touching the fabric and knowing.

The distinctive stitching at the cuff—clean, sharp, unmistakable. I knew that coat. I’d had it custom-made for Ted years ago, commissioned through a private tailor who worked exclusively for families like ours. The fabric, the cut, even the barely visible inner lining—it was something no one else would have. My chest tightened. There was no mistaking it. Ted. Ice-cold rain clung to my hair and slid down my neck, seeping into my clothes, chilling me to the bone. But the cold in my chest was far worse.

​From the shadows of the darkened bridge, a massive, towering figure materialized. ​Adrian did not make a sound as he closed the distance. He wore a heavy, matte-black tactical trench coat over his bulletproof gear, his broad shoulders easily blocking out the faint light of the instruments behind them. His midnight-black eyes were wide, vacant of any peace, carrying that raw, unhinged protective adrenaline that had become his default state whenever they neared a strike zone. ​He didn't look at the fog. He didn't look at the dry-dock.

“Stop!” I turn around to a guy rocking a dark grey hair and an all-black outfit. His unbuttoned trench coat holds the look together and the dark color compliments his pale skin. His strapping figure and toned body give off an elegant look yet does not deter his manly charm. I’ve never stumbled upon a good-looking man such as him. He’s totally on another level.

I'd expected him to be the typical guy, without any opinions on the styles themselves, but he offered advice freely and seemed truly involved. I'd marked a couple of possibles when I saw it. It was a two buttoned coat featuring a wide, velvet looking lapel. The model wearing it also had a white pleated shirt with a high lace collar, and lace ruffles poked out from under both jacket sleeves. There was also a loose western bow tie along with her fitted pants. I loved it. "What do you think of this one?" Mr. Winterberg frowned thoughtfully at the screen for a second. "Yeah, I like it. I think that would look really good."

Equipment: Camouflage Fur Coat Equipment Level: 10 Equipment Type: Prototype (Unranked) Equipment Description: This coat is a prototype made by Tailor Sam during his youth that doesn't grant its wearer any defensive stats. Instead, the wearer will be able to use the skill , allowing for him or her to blend into their surroundings.

"Easy! That's not a toy, you know? Do you even know how to use it?" A black trench coat that goes way down past the knees. Matching gloves. Matching Knee-length flat boots. "One thing I am so sure of is that if I pull this trigger even by mistake, the bullet will pierce through your skull."

I replied in a deadpan tone, and he shrugged with a grin. “Worth a shot,” he said and looked back at the clothes with his mouth in a grim line. “I can’t believe you’re making me do this.” I laughed and shooed him into the changing room. I couldn’t help doubling over when he came out. His face was grim and thunderous, and his eyes were twitching. The first one was a mismatched oversized blazer with clear graphene as the shoulder pads. Mycelium leather was used to make his belt, which happened to go on the blazer. Frankly, it was like a cat that lived at a factory had puked all over him.

It was a cool day at the beach. Bentley stood alone, his hands deep in his pockets as he gazed at the endless horizon. The waves crashed steadily against the shore, their rhythmic sound blending with the occasional call of seagulls soaring above. He wore a simple yet elegant outfit—linen trousers and a white button-down shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows, his usual polished style toned down for the occasion. The breeze tugged at the fabric, making it ripple slightly, and Bentley took a deep breath, his eyes fixed on the sea ahead.

Blanche scoffed, muttering, “It’s the Shadowhawk.” As the helicopter’s rotors slowed, a woman emerged, commanding attention. She wore a tailored navy blue trench coat cinched at the waist, which emphasized her authoritative presence. Underneath, a crisp white blouse added sophistication, while high-waisted black trousers allowed for ease of movement without sacrificing style.