Novel & Cerita Cross X Ink

XO ***

She begged like a baby. "Hey baby." A young man said out of nowhere. "Get out!" I yelled for no reason. I knew he was trying to woo one of us. "Ellen! Don't be rude." Ava said with a grin. "Hi. I'm Xavier." The man said with a grin. "I'm Ava." She said with a grin. "Why don't you just get out." I frowned. "Ellen!" She frowned. "I apologize on her behalf. She could be so stupid sometimes." Her tummy growled then she winced.

"Cuff them. All of them." "Wait! We found—" "You found nothing. X erased it. I can feel the quantum signature from here. Every file in that bunker is gone. Every document. Every photograph. Rendered into probability clouds." Chen looked almost sympathetic. "I told you this was over your head. X has technology that breaks reality. You cannot fight that with motorcycles and determination." "But Samuel Cross—Marcus's brother—he has—"

• • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • • ....wherever you see Dilion, there you will find Griggs; and wherever Damian is, there is also Fred. Declan is a solo walker...a man of seclusion. ....and there are many of us...many too identical... • • RED INK EP 30: Where two roads shall meet • •

The ink clings to the quill, its viscosity carefully crafted to prevent dispersal in the water. Turning his attention to the kelp paper in front of him, Bryan observes the faint shimmer on its surface. The kelp fibers have been infused with a unique hardening agent, a secret formula known only to the skilled artisans of Tritania. The agent causes the ink to react, triggering a chemical transformation that solidifies the liquid, ensuring that the words he pens will remain intact and readable.

I took a few steps near the cell and decided to follow Alex inside. "Stand up!" Beta Alex grab his arm upward and he was unable to decline as he uses force to make him stand and face the wall. He is tall and I can see that his almost the same build as Alex, I can feel his strength but he won't make a chance against the silver chains. My eyes searched the back of his head and notice the art printed on his skin. A letter X inside the triangular shape is written in a shade of black and three dots of red on the corners. I grab his neck. It symbolizes something significant I am sure of it.

My only saving grace was that the door was wide open, so I doubted he’d try anything. “Are you ok Miss Cross?” he questioned. Something clicked for me. “How do you know my name?” “It’s on the register,” he replied. I raised an eyebrow at him. “Except it says Hunt on the register.” He scratched the back of his neck, bringing my attention to his delicious arms. “Lucky guess?” There was something strange going on here, but I ignored it as I smirked, walking up to him. “Mr Cage whose full name I don’t know, you’re coming off as a stalker right now.”

The ink was different now; it was a deep, natural sepia that looked like it had been mixed from walnuts and river-water, free from the synthetic polymers of the High Treasury. Xander stepped over the rusted zinc tread of the dead press unit, his shadow-woven coat trailing through the white chalk-paste. He reached down, his broad, calloused fingers pinching the edge of the paper. As he lifted it, the vellum felt heavy and thick between his knuckles, carrying the physical texture of a real object rather than a digital asset.

"Turns out he’s a shark. He overcharges the wealthy and terrifies the poor into taking out loans for 'critical' treatments they don't need. He has no soul." "Brother, I meant his connection to the crash," Amanda corrected. "We didn't find a direct paper trail yet, but we found this in his emergency kit." Calvin handed her a syringe containing a clear liquid. The label was marked with a single, sharp **'X'**. "What does 'X' mean?" "Some killers use initials to ensure they don't inject the wrong target or to mark their prey. It's a psychological quirk we see in the field." Calvin explained, drawing on his years of investigative experience.

I whispered. He offered his arm. “Let them see.” And just like that, we stepped into the night—a storm dressed in black silk and dominance. The Cross Foundation Gala was less an event and more a carefully staged performance of power. Held at The Blackstone—the Hamptons’ crown jewel—it didn’t just impress. It warned. Every detail dripped with restraint and decadence: black lacquered tables gleamed like oil under the warm flicker of onyx candles, each flame mirrored in smoked crystal glassware. The scent of dark roses and aged bourbon drifted through the air, threading between murmured conversations and the quiet, arrogant hum of old money and even older secrets.