Ghostface Stu Macher の小説・ストーリー

The tip started to smoke, leaving a sharp menthol scent in the air. "What?" asked the guy noticing Dorin's stare. "What... is that?" Dorin asked, pointing at the white stick. The guy snorted. "Are you serious?!" he asked back, laughing so hard that he starts coughing. He extended a hand to Dorin after he finally got his breath back. "Johan Ignacius." "Dorin Silvius." the two shook hands. Dorin was about to ask about the stick again when Johan suddenly looked up and stomps it to the ground.

All because her mind was playing tricks on her. Dani thought that she had seen a ghost from her past. “Ms. Millman?” A male voice calls out and Dani stands up, moving over to stand next to the man in the sharp gray suit. He smiles as she nears him. “How are you doing?” “I am doing well, thank you. How are you?” She responds politely, moving past him as he gestures for her to do.

, pointing towards a machine with a label on the top and the words 'Gacha' written. There was no one around the machine, it was a huge machine slumped over the wall in the corner. They went near the machine and Max was the first one to touch the interface of the machine. Some weird noises came from the machine and a light shot out from it and everyone looked at each other as they didn't know what to do. The machine started to speak, "Scan complete, Max Gunner do you wish to spin your free spin of this year?". "Yes", replied Max slowly looking back at his friends nervously.

He spoke with gritted teeth, a dark expression looming over his features. "H-he pushed me against the wall and uh- I-I banged my head against it really bad and he t-threatened me while grabbing my n-neck." I managed to explain as I made no attempt to hold the tears that are streaming down my face. I don't fully fathom why I am even crying right now but I am just letting it all out. Around Asher, it feels safe to let it all out. He stepped closer, making me flinch. The look on his face, the tone of his voice, everything screamed Asher Lancaster, the merciless mafia, who wouldn’t waste a breath before wiping off the existence of anyone who even dares to mess with him.

He zoomed off, heading straight for Steve’s apartment and when he rung the door bell, he was surprised to see the face of the boy that stared him down. “She doesn’t even have good taste,” Ghost grunted almost inaudibly. “Say what now?” the boy stared him down wondering who he was. “Nothing,” Ghost smiled, a hundred percent sure that the boy had heard him clearly. “I have a business proposal for you, Steve. Can I come in.” The boy was at alert immediately. “Sorry who you are?” he asked. “And how do you know my name?” “Ghost Damon,” Ghost extended his hand for a handshake. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

Something he wouldn't like. "Hey, bro." A hand patted his shoulder. Ghost looked up, taken aback by the Asian standing in front of him. "What's up?" Ghost shook his hand with his gloved ones. He knew the man. One of the prominent underground fighters for the Asian Mafia. It was a brief greeting and they headed their own way.

They were the only reason my spine didn't feel like it was being fed through a woodchipper every time I took a stride on the ice. "I’m fine," I rasped. My voice sounded like it had been dragged through a graveyard. "You're not fine. You’re a ghost," he said, shaking his head as he walked out of the training room. "You’ve been a ghost for eight years." I swallowed the pills dry. He was wrong. I wasn't a ghost. A ghost has a soul that lingers. I was just a machine that refused to stop running. Eight years. Two thousand, nine hundred, and twenty-two days since the hospital bed went cold. Since the blood-stained 'C' became the only thing I had left of a boy who had once been my entire world. I w

"This specific six inches of gym floor belongs to you?" "For the next twenty minutes, yes." "Bold claim." "Accurate claim." One of his teammates, a tall guy named Derek who Ava vaguely recognized from the team roster, laughed, and Mason's expression shifted slightly in the way it did when he had an audience, something settling into place, the performance switching on with the smoothness of a habit so practiced it no longer registered as effort.

He did not greet me when I entered. He never wasted manners on theatre once the audience had arrived. “Carter,” he said. “Don.” I stopped three feet in front of him. Not submissive. Not challenging. Measured. The kind of posture men trust because it tells them what they want to hear. Useful. Controlled. Yours. Marco lifted his head at the sound of my voice. One eye was swollen shut. Blood clung to his teeth. “Please,” he rasped, and I almost admired him for trying. “Don, I didn’t sell anything. I swear to God, I didn’t—”