Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

The door flung open and I threw myself into the room, slamming it shut behind me, not even bothering to see what was inside. Then everything stopped. The bullets. The shouting. Even the world outside. Silence. I was breathing so hard I couldn’t tell if I was alive or halfway to passing out. But then—then I saw it. Blood. Everywhere. Bags of it. Lined up in black medical sacks, tubes snaking out of them like something from a twisted horror film. It was blood. Real blood. I’ve seen enough crime documentaries, crime scenes, I’ve walked past enough hospital rooms... I know blood when I see it.

someone reminded him. Chase glanced down at me and snorted. "It's not like we're going to live any longer. It doesn't matter if we take her with us." He still saved me and draped the only jacket he had over my shoulders. He brought me back. Fearing that I might shatter his ego, I pretended to be as poor as him. I followed him into the criminal gray zone where gang activities were most frequent. It was a place without order, and violence and guns were the only laws of survival.

'Do liars eventually believe their own lies? "I wasn't gonna spell it out, but let's be real—I was too naive, too stupid. I know why you married me. My rare blood type. You needed a walking blood bank for Emma." His face drained of color. I didn't stop. "If you'd just asked, I would've donated. But you drugged me. Stole from me. "Do you even get how terrifying that was? I spent nights wondering if I'd fall asleep and never wake up—just another body you drained dry.

The metal door creaked as I pushed it open. The smell hit instantly: sweat, cheap alcohol, fresh blood. Music thudded from ancient speakers, mixed with shouts from the crowd surrounding a small ring in the center. A filthy arena, fenced in with wire mesh. And inside it—exactly as expected—Damon. Shirtless. Skin slick with sweat, and ugly tattoos he probably thought made him look more dangerous. His right fist still coated in someone else’s blood. His breathing was heavy, but his eyes burned with something wild and furious, something foreign to me.

“Fuck!” ‘We need more.’ Dell says. He sounds upset, I know he is but he still cares for me. We all know what happens when I don’t take my pills. I curse once more, gripping my wallet and bounding down the steps. Dad doesn’t know I’m back. I’ll just get my medication, come back, and he can give me his lecture about this and that. My feet carry me along the street, the sun was setting. Darkness would follow soon. I need to do this quick, and swift. But who?

he said at length. "Okay," I was confused but I answered. What is in my blood? Why is my blood always on a topic? "Let's go," Adrian said. He went ahead of us so Shantelle and I followed him. “Wait a minute!” we were about to go out of the barrier when Mayor Cendric stopped us so we stopped. "Why, dad?" Shantelle asked him. "I just have something to say to Gabria," I frowned at his answer. "What is it?" I asked, curiously.

Prince Evan butt in. "The mountain spirit said there's a bordello in the small community beyond this forest. There, we will find a man named Orion. We can ask him about a wine called Blood of the Wise. That is what we need to please the magical healer." "But wait. Bordello?" My brows furrowed when I realized what word was used. "Oh. Sounds like a good place." Prince Evan smirked. He exactly knows what to expect in that kind of place. Probably because he's a regular or what.

“Stay here,” he said. “Not a chance.” He didn’t argue. There wasn’t time. The front doors stood ajar, light spilling out onto the steps in a way that made my stomach drop. My father never left doors open. Not once, not in twenty-six years. We found Marco first — my father’s head of security, slumped against the wall of the foyer, blood soaking through his shirt from a wound in his shoulder. Alive, but barely, his breath coming in shallow, wet gasps.

“PD. Downtown.” Driver looked at me. Blood on my shirt. Dust. “You need a hospital, man.” “Just drive.” He drove.

Even the children of the city were mouthing his sentences like playground chants. “The three of them,” he had said. “Kroos, Marquez, and the Boss. Blood is their ink. We are the signatures.” The phrase became graffiti within hours. Sprayed on walls, under bridges, across cars in dripping black paint: Blood is their ink. News anchors who once smiled like mannequins now stared into cameras with grim eyes. They cut from Rico’s interview to shaky footage of past murders, drug busts, warehouse fires—suddenly re-interpreted as evidence of what he had confessed.