Futuristic Violence And Fancy Suits Novels & Stories

Two Iron-Wolf guards, their visors glowing red, rounded the corner with pneumatic batons raised. "Subject 0-1 has escaped! Neutralize with—" I didn't let him finish. I moved with a speed that defied the laws of physics, a blur of white silk and violet light. I didn't punch; I struck with the precision of a surgeon. A palm-strike to the suit’s central regulator, a kick to the knee-joint's hydraulic bypass. The eight-foot-tall suit didn't just fall; it folded. The iron plates buckled as if they had been hit by a wrecking ball. The soldier inside let out a muffled grunt of pain as his armor became his coffin.

In their hands they held silver blocks. "The story must be clean " the Revisionists said together. Their voices had no feeling. "The characters are out of order. Go back to the ink." Benson raised his weapon. Fired a stream of black ink. It hit the leader of the suits. The man’s white suit turned into a mess of scribbles. Then he fell down like a pile of waste paper. "Maya get down!" Julian grabbed her arm. Pulled her behind a metal box. The battle was fast and scary. It was not like a fight. When a soldier was hit by a block his arm or leg would just disappear. It left a shape where the arm used to be. The soldiers screamed as they watched parts of their bodies vanish into the air.

They looked dark and utterly dangerous. I noted James was already dressed in his gorgeous three-piece suit. His hair was still a little wet, so I assumed he must have just showered. He looked disarmingly sleek and handsome, ready to take on the world. At the same time, however, I thought he looked ready to kill. Every line of his features told me he had switched from the hot, mysterious billionaire to the threatening predator searching for his prey, and when he found them, he would coldly annihilate them.

Instead, the large projection screens in the ballroom flickered to life, showing a live feed from both Metro City and Townsville. In Metro City, Kurt’s elite units were being systematically neutralized by figures in sleek, black Phoenix Suits. The suits’ cloaking made them look like shadows as they moved through the military lines, deploying nanoshields and sleeper darts with a lethal, silent efficiency. These weren't just soldiers; they were Gordan Chen’s top students, trained in the art of the Kartel.

The kind of shift you feel, like the barometric pressure dropping before a storm. And then it did. The front door slammed open with the violence that sent the little bell into a frantic, terrified ring. I looked up — and it was like the world outside had opened up and spat out a scene from a goddamn mafia movie. A tall, charcoal-suited individual entered, flanked by two others who were dressed in the same black. They smelled of money and trouble. The suits were too sleek, their shoes too polished, and their faces too expressionless. And in the center of them — like some dark, moving god — was him.

His posture radiated the kind of confidence that told the world he expected it to move out of his way. ‎ ‎Men noticed. ‎ ‎They always did. ‎ ‎I noticed something else. ‎ ‎He wasn’t carrying a weapon. ‎ ‎“Do you plan to insult them with confidence alone?” I murmured as we exited the car. ‎ ‎He didn’t look at me. “Weapons announce fear.” ‎ ‎“And arrogance?” I asked. ‎ ‎“That,” he said coolly, “announces inevitability.” ‎ ‎The location was a private industrial gallery—steel, glass, concrete, curated to look neutral. Neutral spaces were always chosen for bloodless violence. Deals made here ended careers, not lives.

The sharp, tangy scent of metal fills my nostrils, sending a shiver of exhilaration down my spine. My body moves on autopilot, years of street fights and mob wars kicking in as I dodge and weave, my gun barking with deadly precision. One by one, the suits fall, their bodies hitting the ground with dull thuds. But my victory is short-lived as more goons pour through the door like rats from a sinking ship.

Mafia men preferred suits, just to be cryptic, like in funerals. They did not belong to the Kozlovsky Syndicate, their uniform and symmetrical ways say it. If it was them, they would be done with me by now. One shot behind my head when I least expected. Clean and efficient. But even they wouldn’t use these fancy-dressing props.

"Old Americana vintage gangster stuff has a fantastical feel; it feels less dirty in a way. It feels like the opera of crime." - Shia LaBeouf JORDAN POV “You destroyed my underwear, again." Melody hissed lowly and dangerously as she slipped into a black silk robe that had a nice lace fabric on the marring her entire back. Her whole rear and ass were out on display, and I found myself thinking of rewarding the designer who came up with such an idea. Thanks to him, I could admire my wife's naked butt even though she put something to cover her body. Or maybe that was the whole idea; a litter of tease while covering most of the goodies.

the other one replied. "But what if he is worse than Sylvester?" "I don't fucking care. I had a good fuck last night during the feast; isn't that a good thing to be happy about?" They both reached the truck and opened it with the aim of taking out the weapons, but their faces got hit. They went down to the floor together. The others who saw this reached for their guns, but bullets flew across, killing each of them. It was coming from silent pistols. Jameson was the first to step out, followed by Diego and some other men. The two men were dressed in suits with weapons fixed to their bodies. The suits were a special tech Diego had worked on. They were bulletproof, but not for long.