Futuristic Violence And Fancy Suits Novels & Stories

GIOVANNI'S POV The opulent chapel, usually a sanctuary of hushed reverence, now buzzed with a chaotic symphony of screams and the guttural roars of men fighting for their lives. The stained-glass windows, meant to cast a divine glow upon the union of two powerful families, now refracted the crimson light of spilled blood. My black suit, once a symbol of my ascension, was now spattered with the same grim hue. I moved through the carnage, a phantom of wrath, my every step a decree of annihilation.

It was hard. Sweat dripped from inside his suit as he kept running through the facility, which was built in 3D. In a very short time, he reached the base using the new suit. He reached for the big gun and started firing at every person in his way without missing. He stopped when he was hit, and an electric pulse vibrated through his body like a real gunshot. He turned around and used his knives on those people; shortly after, he reached the objective, stopped, and removed his helmet. He looked around to find that there were no opponents; everything was an illusion.

(Vision-History-The-Truth-Behind-the-First-Succubus-Victoria’s Third Person…) He then seems to turn me in his arms so that as I look out around me I am met with the same room we were standing in before, but it looked newer, not weathered. I smiled at all the vampiresses that were dressed in really old-style lavish gowns and the funny-looking things they called suits in the future that the males were wearing.

Then it stops and there's silence, before me stands a man. His eyes are fully black, his hair the same as his eyes slicked back. He holds an air of arrogance as he studies me, tilting his head to the side as he regards me with a look of disgust on his face. The black suit he wears looks like it is made of shadows, the smirk that crosses his sends a chill through me. “Who are you? Where is this?” I demand, hating the slight shake to my voice. He circles me as if I am his prey.

"We have no idea who he’s meeting or what they’re talking about. If only we knew." Lusso, seated at a desk filled with screens and gadgets, leaned back in his chair, his fingers tapping lightly on the edge of the desk. "There’s nothing we can do about it, boss," Lusso said calmly. "Victor likes The Iron Flask because there are no cameras inside. He thinks it’s the safest place for him to relax or conduct business without anyone tracking him."

Felix and Gunther were trained to recognize the silhouette of a billionaire. I stripped off the charcoal suit and pulled on a pair of dark, heavy denim jeans and a black tactical shirt that hugged my frame. I threw on a worn leather jacket—the kind of thing a high-end mercenary or a drifter might wear. I tucked a suppressed 9mm into the small of my back and checked the mirror. My hair was a mess, my jaw shadowed with stubble. I looked like trouble. I looked like the man I had become in the gutters of New York and the backstreets of Moscow.

A gun rested lazily in one hand, a dagger in the other—its blade still dripping, each drop hitting the floor in a quiet, sickening rhythm. His hair was combed back, perfectly styled despite the carnage. And his eyes— A striking, unnatural blue. Beautiful. Deadly. His jaw was sharp, sculpted to perfection. He looked almost… heavenly. If heaven was built on violence. Beside him stood the other. Black shirt. The blood on his clothes disappeared into the fabric, making him look even more lethal—like the violence belonged to him. A few buttons undone, revealing ink crawling up his chest and wrapping around his neck.

she screamed, though her voice sounded small and hollow in the ruined space. She reached behind her, her fingers fumbling across the counter until they closed around the handle of a steak knife. It felt pathetic. It was a dull blade meant for medium-rare beef, not for defending her life against the man stepping through the wreckage. He didn't look like a burglar. He didn't have a mask or a weapon drawn. He wore a charcoal suit that probably cost more than her entire college fund, and he moved with a terrifying, predator-like grace. His eyes were the colour of a winter sea, cold, deep, and completely unbothered by the chaos he’d just caused.

He began to dress, the tattoos vanishing once more under the silk and wool. ​"Fix yourself, Elena," he said, tossing her a fresh suit bag from the closet—a stunning, cream-colored power suit he had ordered specifically for this day. "Today, we don't use guns. We use the truth. And we’re going to watch Marcus Thorne’s world burn from the top floor." ​Elena stood, her body aching in the best possible way. She looked at the silver collar in the mirror, then at the cream suit. She reached for the zipper of the suit bag, her eyes reflecting the same lethal calm she had seen in Julian's.

What followed was a masterclass in high-speed, military-grade styling. Tex didn't even bother with a fitting room. He grabbed a massive, custom-cut triple-XL black suit off the rack, ripped his tactical vest off in the middle of the floor, and squeezed his massive frame into the fabric, grumbling about how the shoulder seams were going to restrict his stabbing motion. Kany was frantically pinning the hem of a sleek, backless black slip dress while simultaneously hacking into the Valenti security feed on her tablet, a bobby pin clamped firmly between her teeth.