Inanimate Insanity Knife X Suitcase Novels & Stories

Isobelle There had to be something in the cabin I could use to defend myself with — one of Alex’s butcher’s knives, a meat cleaver, or a heavy-weighted rolling pin. Maybe Lucas had a lump-hammer in his shed, or maybe I would fall lucky and stumble across a secret room with a stash of weapons.

The Walther stared right at her forehead. Her eyes followed his thumb as it pulled the safety pin. A cold sweat dripped down her neck. Her left hand was a few inches away from the pocket knife in her jacket and all she had to do was reach for it without raising any suspicion. Easy, right? The only problem was she realized this guy was not just any crazed Tom, Dick, or Harry that needed some quick cash or anything else to that.

The calm expression was just a facade, after years of being in the mafia, I have learnt all the different types of emotions. Vincenzo walked to the large black suitcase, where all his different knives were. There was a different bag just beside it, containing a few of our weapons. The silver knives glinted in the dark room, after being used to torture for many years, it still looked like it was bought recently. Vincenzo pulled out a white hand towel and cleaned up the blood on the knife before dropping it and picking up another one.

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.

"Well, we'll see. That contraption came equipped with a pair of nice hunting knives, a machete, two shotguns, a compound bow with twelve arrows, and extra ammunition. We should be able to return to Fort Hamilton without mishap and any issues." Suddenly, I began to think about the owner of this. Is it possible he merely left his suitcase there? I'm curious if he gets bitten or if he simply catches something and leaves it for a while. But if it's the latter, I'd feel sorry for myself. He won't be able to shield himself from the terrible since he won't have anything with him. But, if that's the case, he should've carried his suitcase with him instead of leaving it behind. I glanced at Justine.

My fingers tingled as I tried to shift, but he kept me anchored beside him. When the man lifted the lid, I felt my throat go dry. Inside was a collection of blades — knives of every shape and size, their metal edges gleaming cold under the light. There were other things, too—tools I recognized, and the ones I didn't, but that screamed one word all the same... Pain. A chill raced down my spine. Damiano’s gaze flicked to the suitcase, then back to me. When he spoke, his voice was quiet, almost too calm.

What have I done to deserve being locked up with a monster? Fear tightened it's grip on my throat, suffocating my voice. I watched with apprehensive eyes as he opened the suitcase, and my blood ran dry the moment I saw what was in them. So many dangerous items - guns, blades of all kinds, scissors, and so many other deadly items I couldn't even recognize. A choked whimper slipped pass my throat, especially when he picked up a strange blade and approached me. "P...Please..." I pressed my back into the wall. "Y...You c... can't just come in here and d...do t..this to me. It's... It's illegal."

I instantly moved to the side when my blind ass landed on my last suit case but my scowl was wiped away and replaced with a grin. My last suitcase to unpack: my favourite suitcase. I pushed myself up and off the bed, making my way towards the giant dresser, my suitcase with me. I pulled the two top drawers open that I had saved for my babies. In one, I placed all of my knives, my knife collection, butterfly knives, blades, daggers, pocket knives, machetes, switchblades, you get the idea. In the other drawer, are my firearms, the ones on the smaller side that is.

In the corners, darkness resumed breathing. Sasha rewrapped the knife as if fabric could absorb whatever a blade remembered. Her fingers moved with the care of someone bandaging their own knuckles after a fight they’d already forgiven themselves for. Marco, meticulous even in aftermath, stripped the table, sprayed, wiped, made the concrete smell like hospital and steel. Vince dismantled the straps, coiled them, set them back in the crate whose label—BOTTLES: HALF-NECK—lied about everything. “Car,” she said. The word came out clean. She had expected it to wobble.

“Now it’s just you and me. And I don’t play the same way Maddox does.” He set the knife on the table, slow and deliberate, before pulling a small, battered tin from his pocket. He opened it with a soft click — inside were thin metal tools, some rusted with age, others gleaming sharp. He laid them out one by one, the sound echoing in the concrete room like a ritual.