Futuristic Violence And Fancy Suits Novels & Stories

There was no loud, thumping music, just a soft, ambient beat that seemed to vibrate through the very air. People moved like graceful phantoms, dressed in clothes that looked more like works of art than something you would wear to a bar. The drinks were served in futuristic, glowing glasses, and the air smelled of citrus and something clean and futuristic. It was like stepping into a dream, a secret world hidden in plain sight. Exclusive. Expensive. Dangerous. “Holy shit,” I whispered. “Well?” Victor’s voice was low, a hint of amusement in it. “Are you impressed, Ms. Jones?”

“Then we prepare.” --- Lucien did not understand shopping. At all. “Why are there so many identical garments?” he asked in the first boutique. “Because humans fear individuality but crave the illusion of choice.” He considered that. “Disturbingly accurate.” I held up a charcoal suit. “This.” “It lacks presence.” “It lacks intimidation,” I corrected. “CEOs don’t conquer with swords anymore. They do it with neutrality.” “…I dislike neutrality.” “Trust me.” Twenty minutes later, he stood before a mirror in modern perfection—clean lines, tailored authority.

He stood at the threshold like a sovereign stepping into his kingdom, tall and immovable, dressed in a perfectly tailored black suit that clung to his body with lethal precision. The fabric looked expensive...Italian, perhaps, but what truly arrested the room was not the suit. It was the way he wore it. The top buttons of his white shirt were undone, revealing just enough skin to suggest danger rather than comfort. His sleeves were rolled halfway, exposing veined forearms that spoke of control, violence, and restraint sharpened by years of power. His aura was suffocating. Masculine. Cold. Absolute. This was a man who didn’t announce his dominance, he radiated it.

Frederick slammed on the brakes in front of an abandoned shopping mall, a mass of concrete and graffiti that looked like the skeleton of a dead giant. "Get out," Frederick ordered, his voice cutting through the air like a blade. "And you’d better keep that stomach of steel you brag about having with your little girlfriend." "Don't worry about my stomach, Frederick," Luke retorted, stepping out of the car with a calm that made the older man’s eyes narrow. "Worry about whether what I’m going to see is interesting enough to have made me waste my afternoon." Frederick got out of the car, adjusting the jacket of his Italian suit as if he were arriving at a business meeting on Wall Street and not

The other came at me, fast, a knife appearing in his hand, the glint of steel in the dim light. I blocked, sidestepped, the movements fluid, and practiced. It boiled down to knowing how to break a man with your bare hands, how to end a fight before it became a spectacle. My pride demanded it. No messy gun play on foreign soil unless absolutely necessary. Just control. Efficient, brutal control that left no trace on my suit, only on their bodies. A man in a crisp suit, probably someone leaving the exhibition for a smoke, rounded the corner of the alley just as I slammed the scar-faced man’s head into the brick wall with a sickening thud.

He stopped and looked at me. “I thought we could fight this war in the open. I thought truth and law were enough. But we are not fighting criminals or corrupt businessmen anymore. We are fighting a cult. A syndicate with resources and reach beyond anything governments have. They operate outside the law, above the law, and completely unseen.” He walked over to me, holding out a vest and a compact but powerful sidearm. I took them without hesitation. I looked at the ring on my finger. The promise ring Theron gave me. The blue stone shimmered like the core of the machine.

Drakes POV Ten security guards sealed off the reception hall, trapping me in their center with a heavily built guy who looks like a heavyweight champion. I’m guessing that he is their best soldier, and they have chosen him to take me out. I have a fully loaded gun safely hidden at the back of my suit I also have a knife strapped to my ankle, which could do some damage if needed. But as I focus my eyes on the pathetic fools, I knew it would be a waste if I pulled out my gun on them. Using my knives or any other weapon would be too messy. So I decided to use my fist instead. Trust me, when I’m done with these idiots, they would all wish I’d pulled my gun on them instead.

"Thanks," I said to Robin on the other side of the line. I had just landed in Bismarck when I sat down on a bench and opened the hospital security footage. Even I was shocked by how much blood there was. Magnolia truly was as ruthless as ever. But the death of one insignificant man was not enough to stop the Walker empire from reigning. Within a week, news that the Walker hospital had lost access to its core technologies spread across every major social media platform.

I needed armor. My mind wasn't even in the room anymore; it felt like I was watching myself from a distance, a passenger in a body controlled by pure survival instinct. I reached for a bone-white Alexander McQueen power suit. It was sharp, tailored to perfection, and projected an image of innocence and untouchable status. I paired it with nude Louboutin pumps and a simple diamond pendant. If I was going to my execution, I was going to look like a saint who had been wronged.

I could almost hear the ghosts whispering, warning me to turn back. But ghosts didn’t scare me. Old men who thought they were gods—now that was worth killing. Another turn. Two more men in suits—Vincent’s. Their ties were crimson already, shirts soaked from the fight. They saw me, thought for half a second I was on their side. That hesitation cost them. I dropped the first with a round to the cheek, the second with a spray across the ribs. “Motherf—!” one choked as he fell. “Save it,” I muttered, stepping over him.