Doors Blood In The Streets Novels & Stories

The night swallowed her whole the moment she stepped outside. A dark cab carried Suede toward the edge of the district. The building she was heading to had no signage, no gate number, no marker of any kind to suggest that behind its thick walls, a man spent his nights engineering the deaths of others over expensive cigars. Just a pale, drab concrete fortress, lit by streetlamps that flickered like drowsy eyes, the air so saturated with tobacco that the smell seemed to have seeped into the paint itself. Mansion Morelli.

"I just forgot that masterpieces belong in museums, not in cages." The police burst through the French doors. Laredo didn't resist as they tackled him to the marble floor, the clink of the handcuffs sounding like the closing of a book. As they led him away, he stopped for a second beside me. He leaned in, his voice a ghost of a whisper. "I’m not the only one with this blood, Lisa. Remember that when you look in the mirror." Then he was gone. The room erupted into chaos. People were shouting, running for the exits, trying to distance themselves from the scandal of the century.

The steel door hit the floor with a violent hiss, melting into a puddle of golden liquid that glowed, dim and angry, on the concrete. Maya didn’t move. She just stood there, frozen. Silver blood ran down her hand. She pressed it hard to her chest, trying to stop the bleeding, but it just kept coming. The people from the Chorus stayed on their knees—hundreds of them, packed into the dark parking garage. Their golden eyes caught the strange light off the molten metal, making the whole place feel unreal.

I feel like a monster now. "Anything I can do to help." Dr. Emerson led us down a long corridor before opening the door into the lab. Towards the back of the lab the vials of blood were held. Dr. Emerson looked worried about me being around all that blood, as though I would go berserk simply knowing all that blood was there.

I let rage do the talking. I went back to the streets. Not the bright, polished surface my name sits on—but the one beneath. The blood-laced underground. I dragged out the men who owed me things. Smashed safehouses that weren’t mine but could’ve been. I didn’t ask questions. I didn’t need answers. I wanted bruises on my fists and blood under my nails. I wanted to feel something that wasn’t her.

“We can have a swim, wash the blood off.” “Yeah, let’s do that,” Rhett agreed and lit a cigarette before offering the pack around. Cameron and Heath both took one, something they did infrequently, and the three blood splattered teens strolled casually along the street smoking. “I think I’ve got f-king Shaun’s vomit on my shirt.” “Gross,” Cameron grimaced. “That was a good fight.” “I’ll be pissing blood tonight,” Rhett winced as he pulled up his shirt. Sure, enough there was a darkening bruise that curled around his ribs. “What does it look like from behind?” He asked twisting to show the back.

Grayson "War, what the fuck did you do?" I demand. The second I step into the shipping container, the stench of weed, sweat, and blood slams into me. The walls are splattered with it—thick streaks of red staining the cold steel like a fucking horror movie. I come to an abrupt stop just inside the door, my gaze flickering down to the slick pool of blood drying on the floor. Fucking great. I don't mind blood. I've spilled plenty of it. But I don't fucking like walking in it if I don't have to.

“Your old stomping grounds. Filth in tailored suits. The rot under the city’s skin. They run the dirtiest businesses—guns, drugs, flesh, laundering—and when things need breaking, they’re the hammer. Most of the crimes staining our streets? Their fingerprints are on them.” My jaw tightened, but I said nothing. He went on. “The second—Blood Moon Empire. Shadows with blades. They don’t care about money, not really. They’re killers. Assassins. Spies. When someone with too much power wants someone else erased, it’s Blood Moon they call. A ghost’s empire. They live for the kill, and they don’t miss.” He tapped ash into the tray, eyes flicking to me. “Cross them, and you won’t see it coming.”

I navigated the dense New York traffic without paying attention to the route, relying on pure muscle memory to get me to the docks. The Dwayne MC clubhouse sat at the end of an industrial alley. It was a massive, reinforced concrete warehouse. The heavy metal gate rolled open as I approached. I parked my bike inside the main bay and cut the engine. Everywhere was silent but then it only lasted exactly three seconds before I heard the shout. I walked through the steel door into the main bar area. The room smelled of stale beer, gun oil, and unwashed bodies. Wayne and Iris were circling each other in the center of the floor. Wayne was bleeding from a cut above his left eyebrow. Iris had his ha

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.