Book Hood Novels & Stories

This is night so he don't actually see through me, but everytime he look up, his eyes directly at me. That shock me, but then he just look away. I sigh in relief, shrugged the thought and enjoy the boring night without anyone see me. I said, “Everyone is happy despite vulnerable to almost everything. Not even death they can possibly avoid it,” I said, and the foolish stop from what he's doing, and even slowly close the book in his hand. He didn't look up, so I added after I sneered at him, “This foolish is not exception. Why not party with everyone else while he's living on?” His lip slightly curve, and he open the other book this time. He said to himself, slowly, “This book... is said to co

Chapter Four — The Price of Breathing The body stayed where it fell. No one rushed to remove it. No one spoke. The corridor seemed to hold its breath, stone walls slick with blood and tension. Wolves stood frozen in various stages of shift claws half-extended, eyes glowing, chests heaving. The scent of death thickened the air until it coated the back of my throat. I was still standing over him. The assassin. His neck lay at an angle that made it clear he wouldn’t be getting back up again. I stared down at him, waiting for something shock, horror, regret.

He was conversant with how things like this worked. A surge of adrenaline ran through him as he stormed into the streets. His eyes moved over the countless people. He could still remember what the homeless man was dressed in and what he looked like. Sweat broke across his face as he stepped into people’s faces to check if the homeless man had changed into another outfit. He had read too many crime books to know how this works while growing up. Finally, he caught sight of the tattered black hoodie. He grabbed him by the shoulder with renewed hope and flipped him around.

she walked to my closet and picked up a hoodie, “this will help, along with the gloves.” “Thanks, mama,” I said as I took the hoodie from her and put it on with the gloves. My hoodie was my favorite color green and big enough for me to fit my entire body inside, I draped it over my knees to keep them close to me and my mom looked at me with some worry. “Are you alright, baby?” Her eyebrows had a frown and her eyes held the caring mother look that she got whenever she worried that I was sick or depressed.

She just turned on her heel and walked away, her boots crunching through the spreading pool of blood like it was nothing. I couldn’t breathe. I Could Not Breathe. “What the fuck—” I gasped, stepping backward, nearly tripping over my own feet. “What the fuck was that?!” Hoodie Guy’s expression didn’t change. He looked at the dead man, then at the brunette, and finally, back at me. “Bad timing,” he told me quietly. “Bad—?!” My voice cracked. “Someone just—she just killed him!” He sighed, like I was overreacting. “Yeah. That tends to happen in situations like this.”

Room 207. Simple. Don’t talk. Don’t attract attention. Don’t get involved. Her fingers were already trembling when she reached the metal handle of her locker. She hated that. She’d told herself she was fine. But her body never listened. She’d only just started twisting the lock when the hallway went quieter. Not silent. Just… shifted. Like the room tilted slightly in one direction. People moved aside, whispers rising like fog. That’s when she saw him. Tall. Hoodie up. Black jeans. Heavy boots. Eyes like he didn’t care about the world and the world didn’t care about him.

his father spat and tossed back the rest of his drink. "Stay away from that girl," "Or what?" Garin challenged him. "Or it will be the end of her, you or both. The Red Hoods don't associate with shifters," he stalked from the room. Garin looked at the large book in front of him as if it were diseased. It appeared to be an encyclopedia of sorts. The Red Hoods emblem, a hood encircled by a bow and arrow, was embossed on the front in faded gold filigree.

The man in the black hoodie did not belong to the North. He didn't carry the scent of the pines or the iron of the mountain. He smelled of recycled air, stale coffee, and the electric ozone of a thousand glowing screens. His eyes were not sapphire or gold, but two solid, light-drinking pits of "Pure Ink." As he stood in the courtyard, the vibrant violet lilies beneath his sneakers didn't just wilt; they "Redacted," turning into grey rectangles of censored data.

The planchette moves to "Hi." "Um, hello?" The planchette then moves to the letter "A" then to the letter "G" the letter "R" the letter "E" the letter "A" and the letter "S" I looked at the robed person "Is that your name?" The planchette glides over to "Yes" The robed person then lift their head, I can see underneath the hood. They looked like a pale old man, wrinkles under his eyes, he looks as if he was sick. He looked back down at the board