City Of Anger Novels & Stories

It sets your soul on fire and dares you to walk through the flames for it. I’ve walked through worse. And if a car makes her angry, if it reminds her that I still know the version of her who once begged me to test drive one down the coast…I’m fine with that. Anger means she still feels something. Silence is worse. I lie back on the bed and let the city hum around me. If she wants a clean slate, she can build it. But I’ll be the ghost in the foundation.

The first drag hit my lungs hard, burning in that familiar way that said maybe I’d finally calm the fuck down. I didn’t. I kept smoking, dragging hard and fast like the faster I inhaled, the quicker I’d exhale the anger. But that’s not how it works. Anger isn’t air—it’s glue. It sticks to your ribs, lines your throat, clogs everything up till all you can do is growl and curse and smoke until there’s nothing left but a filthy filter and a filthy mood. “I’m not a fucking ATM,” I muttered to no one. “Not a goddamn piggy bank. I’m not even a son to him anymore, and now he shows up like it’s some Sunday dinner reunion? Miss me with that bullshit.”

The anger in his face slowly morphed into something else—something raw, desperate, and utterly consumed. "You don't understand," he murmured, closing the distance between us in two massive strides until he was towering over me, his breath hot against my face. "When I saw that glass shatter... when I thought a bullet might touch you... I realized I don't care about the war, Della. I don't care about the docks, or the money, or the treaty. If anything happens to you, I will burn this entire city to ash just to find the person responsible."

I walked to the window, staring at the skyline. The city lights flickered like dying stars, mocking me. Everything looked so small from up here, so insignificant. And yet, every person down there had a way to ruin something if I gave them time. Maybe that was what was happening now. I flexed my jaw. I needed to remind them who they were dealing with. I could feel the anger building again—thick, heavy, unstoppable. Something—or someone—to bleed it out on. Maybe one of my men. The next one who gave me bad news. Or maybe… Baron.

She had been standing at the window long enough for the city to move through at least two versions of itself, and she had not been aware of the time passing, which meant she had not been thinking. She had been feeling something. She took stock of it now, the way you took stock of a room after something had changed in it — carefully, starting from the edges, working inward. She was angry. This was the first time she had let herself use that word for it, and the word was not quite adequate but it was the closest available, the right shape if not the right size. She had been not-angry for thirty-nine days with the specific discipline of someone who understood that anger would not help, that it

One day before... The cityscapes view sickened the young man's vision, he hated the city because of the hell and treatment he received from almost everyone. Aldo Minstral just stopped by the minimarket to get himself a cup noodle. He's too lazy to cook lately, especially when he's feeling under the weather. He felt as if the city cursed him since he was a child, everyone was afraid of him and blamed him for the misconduct he did when he was twelve. He never thought of his misconduct as a mistake, he only did that to protect his beloved childhood friend from being bullied continuously.

Heavy snow had fallen over the northern part of the city. Northern Capitoville, this ancient and bustling city, already carried a hint of cold before the snow arrived. The sky seemed slowly covered by an enormous gray curtain, overcast, oppressive, and silent. The trees along the streets trembled in the cold wind. Their bare branches looked particularly stark against the dim sky. Occasionally, a few withered leaves were swept up by the wind, spinning weakly in the air before slowly falling back down. The moment Cora stepped out of the airport, the cold northern wind gave her goosebumps. Fortunately, only the short walk from the plane exposed her to the wind and snow.

From the first to last individual will absolutely pay. In an attempt to regain control, I focused on the practicalities. As I stooped to pick up the scattered objects, a piece of shattered glass pricked my finger. Big mistake! Like a thinking bomb, I howled in anger, shooting to my feet. I tuned into my wolf stomping on the debris on the floor. I kept going until there was nothing left to receive my anger. Panting, I found myself gazing out of the window, lost in contemplation. The city of Madrid sprawled beneath. It was alive and didn't bother to stop for a split second to condone what I felt.

The sky is starting to tinge gold and bruised purple around the edges, bathing New York City in a warm, deceptive light. Yet everything feels cold to the touch. The evidence of decades-old betrayal in the photograph I’m holding and the icy chill that’s frozen my heart. Everyone always says anger and fury are fiery emotions—blazing heat and scalding flames. But as I mount the back of Ron’s bike and we blast off into the urban streets, it’s cold that most intensely describes how I feel.

Proud, happy about something so useless, while her men were in disarray, without guidance, supplies and aid. She stopped in front of the glass and looked at the dark city, small lanterns dotted the main streets, illuminating the buildings that at that distance and height looked like tiny constructions, although Taryn knew how beautiful and great they were seen up close. Her body began to tremble with anger and surrounded herself with her arms, trying to calm the violent explosion that seemed to want to erupt from every part of her body. Her skin burned, she couldn't bear it, she almost wanted to tear it off, she felt an intense heat flaring up more and more inside: flames of pure anger.