Dead Rising 2 Clothes Novels & Stories

I inform him. “Understood. I’ll be there soon,” he says before hanging up. I hang up and once again drop my phone on the bed. I decide to pull down my dress from around my waist and stare at it in dismay. Now stained with my blood and sporting an unwanted bullet hole, I weep for my dress that is beyond the point of salvaging and glare down at the corpse at my feet. “You fuckers have ruined my Valentino couture,” I spit as I land an unnecessarily hard kick to the dead man on the floor.

I couldn't go out in the snow with a ragged dress, I would freeze to death and the thought of that made the dead woman's clothes look appealing. Moments later, I was dressed in her outfit which was a little too big for me. I smelt of her blood and mine as the clothes clung to my body. I tried not to wretch on the blatant realisation that I was actually wearing her bloodied clothes, a corpse's outfit.

“I… didn’t know about the trip until this morning. Forgive my manners.” “Yeah, well, get to work.” I flopped back on the bed, stretching out like I owned the place…because right now, I kind of did. “I want a classy outfit for a burial. Something that screams ‘you tried to kill me and failed spectacularly.’ Make it loud and mocking.” She nodded eagerly and scurried to the wardrobe. A minute later she came back holding… a red polo shirt. With white block letters across the chest that literally read: ‘YOU TRIED TO KILL ME BUT FAILED.’

Zara replied, handing it over to me. I carefully tore open the envelope, my heart pounding in my chest as I unfolded the papers inside. It was Natalie's autopsy results, a stark reminder of the tragedy that had rocked our pack. Rushing back upstairs, I rummaged through my wardrobe until I found the perfect outfit - a vibrant ensemble consisting of yellow, red, and white floral palazzo pants paired with a snug white long-sleeved top. I carefully tucked the top into the pants for a polished look before slipping into my favorite red sandals.

Day 26. Five days left. I wake up before the sun. The room is quiet, purged of the ghosts of last night. I don't reach for the grey uniform. I don't reach for the black jeans. I open the closet door. The clothes I packed are still on the floor, a pile of black fabric meant for running. But running is plan B. Plan A is winning. I pull out a silk robe. It’s champagne-colored, floor-length, with wide sleeves that ripple like water. Spadino bought it for me weeks ago, a joke about dressing up the doll.

she finished bathing and fumbled through her closet but there's not even a proper cloth to wear. she went to the laundry she found two hundred dollars bills in Desmond Dsquared ripped jeans pocket. the jeans looks baggy on her and she had to tape her pointed nipples with a sellotape since she doesn't even have a brassiere again then she put on Desmond's mauve color t-shirt. her final look was more of a tomboy she kept pacing back and forth in the living room "what if this demon find out... she smile bitterly at the thought of what she's herself gotten into "what's worse he'll just kill me" she shrugged and started out

No signal. “Cool. I’m gonna die here,” I mutter. “And they’ll find me mummified in the dumbest dress ever made.” I look at the dress. Floral. Light. Flowing. Perfectly paired with my heels. Fashionable murder scene. Perfect. I’m deciding whether to cry or start screaming when, in the distance, a deep engine rumble begins to approach. A pickup truck rounds the curve, kicking up dust behind it, huge, imposing, practically glowing in the sun.

Icran slammed the door behind him and locked it. Rhae stared at the garments in her arms, distant from what her usual attire entails but similar to an assassin’s attire. She pulled off her previous clothes, now tattered from a long day. Rhae realised that she might have been here for days, unknowingly. She pulled off her previous undergarment and the pants she had on as well. She stood there as the cold breeze pounded her skin, standing only in her underwear, uncertain of whether to trust the clothes she was brought.

Her marshmallow scent smells rotten. “Disgusting. Just tell her to take her clothes off.” Ghost says. All our conversations about being respectful to our mate go out the window at that moment. “Bro, knock it off.” I chastise him. I look closer at her clothes. A red cropped sweatshirt with the Blood River logo on the sleeve. She cut the neck to help it fit looser. The exposed strap of her bra is black like the leggings and her red trainers match her shirt perfectly. Focus, Milo.