Joker's Knife From Dark Knight Novels & Stories

And I disliked unknown variables more than enemies. Across from me sat Adrian. Or what remained of his composure. Viktor stood beside him, gun raised casually, the barrel resting against Adrian’s temple with unsettling familiarity. Viktor never wasted motion; his stillness alone was enough to suffocate weaker men. Adrian was already sweating. Good. Fear shortened conversations. I set the tablet aside and reached slowly into my coat pocket. Metal met my fingers. It was familiar, balanced, and perfect. My knife. Custom-forged Swiss steel, designed to my specifications alone. The blade unfolded with a soft, precise click, catching the cabin light. Along its spine, engraved in clean lettering, w

This makes my cock throb so hard it hurts. He sees it and laughs, low and dark and wrong. "You're sick, Hoshi." He reaches for the bottle on the floor, pours amber liquid directly into my mouth. I choke on it, cough, and he just keeps pouring until I swallow, until my throat burns and my head spins and I can't tell if the room is moving or if I am. Then he picks up a knife. I recognize it. The handle is wrapped in black leather. The blade is six inches of carbon steel. I used it on him two years ago, buried it between his ribs three times before he got the gun away from me.

“Do your worst. My family has nothing left to lose now.” The guards tensed, hands moving toward weapons, the atmosphere shifting from tense to dangerous. Magnus’s smile faded slightly, replaced by anger as he assessed whether Jack’s bravado was worth responding to with violence. Then Jack’s hand moved to his pocket, pulling out something that glinted in the afternoon light. A small knife, worn and familiar, the same one he’d used countless times for repairs and maintenance around the old compound. The guards surged forward, assuming he meant to attack Magnus. But Jack’s hand moved in a different direction entirely, the blade flashing across his own palm with practiced efficiency.

His feet hit the ground, jarring him, but he was okay. Something fell from his pocket. I couldn't quite make out what it was because it was so dark, and the rain was coming down in torrents, but as the lightning lit up the sky behind him, the light caught a glint of metal. The object at his feet appeared to be a knife— A sharp one. I turned my head away as Damian looked up at me, instinct telling me it was better if he didn't know that I had seen the weapon. Why he had it, I couldn't say, but it made a cold chill pass down my spine.

Alpha Vanc‌e, his skin torn‍ to ribbons‌,‍ his le‌f‍t ar‌m h⁠ang‍in⁠g usel⁠ess‍ly at h⁠is side,‌ his ey‌es filled with a bli‌nd‌, psychotic, s⁠uicid⁠al ra‍ge⁠, leaped⁠ straight out of‍ th⁠e rubble. He held a s‌ix-inch, jagged silve⁠r dagger in his right ha‌⁠nd, the bl⁠ade glowi‌ng wi⁠th a sic‍k‍ly, poisono⁠u‌s‌ g⁠ree⁠n l⁠ight,⁠ a lethal dose‌ of c‍onc⁠entrate‌d dragon-ven‌om. He didn'‌t targ‌e‍t Ja⁠xon. He didn't try to fle‌e‌.

"Boss...please... I didn't know. Please...don't...kill me." "Kill you? I won't. Why would you think that?" Murmuring gently in response, fleshy lips flattened in thoughts. The tzar's casual steps brought him to a secure panel. He punched in a series of codes, it beeped and slowly opened to reveal trays of weapons, displayed for Dominic's personal use. Perfect. It had been a while but he had not forgotten. All types of specially made knives were displayed and arranged perfectly before him, from fixation Bowies, authentic katanas, bolos, Gerber, and...

"She's fuckin' mine, so touch ‘er, and be ready for me to launch a fuckin’ knife at ya." "Erm, I am not yours!" I shout and glare at his back. "Tiny Demon, shh, let me clear this up, then we will leave." "No! Not ‘tiny demon shh’. What the actual fucking fuck bucket is going on? I'm dreaming, I'm fucking dreaming, and someone needs to slap me and wake me up." I feel someone slap me and groan. I didn't mean literally! Joker moves and drops the guy he had held off before gripping the one who slapped me. My eyes bulge when I see the knife sweep across his neck.

Unaware of the chaos in the dungeon, Zen took his time soaking in the tub after teaching Joaquin and Elena how to maintain some of his kitchen tools. The knives were the only tools he didn’t allow them to touch. A chef’s knives were akin to their hands and lives. If he could, he would have a set of ceramic knives made instead, as they were more durable and didn’t need sharpening as much.

I pull off his jacket and remove the knife from my thigh holster. Christian chuckles. “So now you want to get me out of my clothes? And how did you know I’m into knives?” He says sarcastically, and I shoot him a glare as I rip open his black shirt. “Not the time or the place, Drakos,” I say, but he only shakes his head as a smile remains.

I was sensing a theme to the day; I wondered, apathetically if I was going to perhaps be forced into unconsciousness too. Ignorant of my inner turmoil, Niko produced another dagger using his sleight of hand, but this one was different from his normal throwing knives. This dagger was curved like a sickle, the wicked blade shining with a gleaming amber edge. This one, this weapon could kill. And, from the way the underlord was tossing it back and forth between his hands like one might an orange, it was a blade he was very keen on using.