Extraction Novels & Stories

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"Not assassination." Murmurs ripple through the assembled Council, several members exchanging uncertain glances. "Extraction requires the target's death eventually, regardless," someone points out. "The ritual demands it." "Not necessarily," I say. "The old texts — the ones your previous leadership apparently never bothered consulting thoroughly — describe extraction as fundamentally distinct from assassination in both method and outcome. Assassination seeks to end a threat. Extraction seeks to redistribute what makes that threat dangerous in the first place."

Sarah asked, though her tone suggested she already knew the answer. "Dozens of times. My mother specialized in curse extraction." I turned back to Caleb. "This is going to feel weird, but it shouldn't hurt. I'm going to use counter-resonance to destabilize the fragments so your body can naturally expel them. You might feel warmth or tingling, maybe some pressure. If you feel actual pain, tell me immediately." He nodded, his eyes wide but trusting. I took a breath, centered myself, and began the extraction. The technique was one my mother had perfected over years—using my own magical signature to create a counter-frequency that m

The child wasn't drawing from me; she was using my human body as a physical bridge to format the entire canyon. "Warning," the triple-layered frequency tore out of my throat, my voice carrying the weight of the three-ton beast, the newborn heir, and the forty thousand scrappers breathing the toxic air of the lower tiers. "The extraction line has exceeded its permitted liability. The open-source registry is... canceling the charter." I didn't lift my hand to strike. I simply pressed my right heel down—hard—into the gray, oil-slick mud. Thrum. The ground didn't just shake; it opened.

The extraction wasn’t until nine but he liked to arrive early, to sit in his private office and review files before the needle went in. He’d be gone for at least two hours. Possibly three if Tristan’s person at the hospital followed through on the delay. My hands were cold as I pulled out my phone and opened the photography app. The first file I found was labeled “GF Operations.” GF means Greene’s Formula. Inside were spreadsheets and dates and quantities. Three bags. Five bags. Seven bags on one particularly brutal extraction. Each entry had a corresponding amount with the price it had sold for, buyer and application code.

"My father doesn't handle delay well." Brack's white teeth flashed with a grin. "Oh, believe me he's throwing his weight around and the normal two to three months for DNA isn't even a possibility. That's not the problem, though." Brack took a bite of steak and I did the same. Watching his lips move as he chewed had me squirming in my chair. I barely tasted my food. I wanted those lips on me. Everywhere. "What's up?" Brack asked with a strange look on his face.

I say deflating in seconds. After a short cab ride, all three of us are standing at the ruins of a blown-up bus, although there are nobodies lying around on the street you can still see the bloodstains from where they were, the whole area has been cordoned off, there are still police and investigators looking around so there's not much chance of us being able to get near the site without being spotted, I stand at the edge of the tape, close my eyes and take in as much air as I can, I breathe deeply trying to concentrate on the smell around me but all I'm getting is the scent of the humans around me and burnt remains of the explosion

"Yes...yes, please..." The headboard was making more noise, but their moans were louder. The smacking, slapping sound of their naked flesh, their harsh deep heavy breaths, all pushing towards their climax. The high was going to be explosive and Hendry took it further when he grabbed Sloan's cock and start to jerk him off. "Fuck...fuck...fuccckkk..."

Evangeline “Let’s break up. I’m calling off our engagement.” My brain screeched to a halt. The buzz of excitement in my stomach from just ten minutes ago — seeing the beautiful 100/100 in my Astrobiology test — dissolved like paper in acid. “W-what?” I echoed; my grip on my food tray tightening so hard my knuckles lost circulation. A short laugh of disbelief punched out of my throat. “Jer…what... what are you talking about?”

she syllables between groans. “To what?” Mark shouts, nearly hysterical. “Crab,” Mónica sighs, nearly fainting. “Damn it!… Estela, what did you put on the ham? Don’t tell me it’s… San Sebastián,” he growls, dragging Mónica onto the sofa. I don’t say a word. I rush to the kitchen and grab the little bottle of dressing, which indeed has a huge crab drawn on the label. Who in their right mind adds crab to a dressing?