Manacled Hard Copy Novels & Stories

Elena Vale has spent her entire life sticking to the rules, until the night she's forced into an engagement she never wanted. Fleeing from her high-society cage, she ends up in a grimy bar, drinking with a brooding stranger who offers the one thing she never expected: freedom.  Jack Roman is the last man a woman like Elena Vale should marry. Tattooed, sharp-tongued, and hiding secrets behind his sea blue eyes. He's everything she's been taught to avoid. But when an impulsive drunken wedding turns into a full-blown scandal, Elena seizes the chaos. She makes him a deal — six months of pretending, then they part ways. To Elena, faking a marriage with a stranger is supposed to keep her

June volunteered d to help them. “Only paper versions of old books, can’t we get all of this on a PC or something? It will make thing much easier and quicker,” June asked. “Security of the information. No copies are allowed,” Madison explained to the first timer. “And trust me, you are not the only one who hate hours of pointless rummaging through old, foul smelling books. It has eternally irritated me and the others.” “Be warned! The real field work is quite different from what we do during the training,” Hughley joked.

She pulled the weathered black notebook into the exact center of the morning light. The cardboard cover was scuffed at the corners, the edges frayed from the damp weeks she had spent hiding it inside the lining of her coat while relegated to the secondary quarters. This wasn't a sleek piece of aluminum hardware synced to a corporate cloud. It carried no network cards. It had no biometric bypasses that a machine-learning script could mimic or manipulate. It was a completely analog fortress of raw truth.

“We’ll lock this in. Front page of today’s edition.” Marcus’s hand brushes mine under the desk, quick and subtle, but enough to tether me. The countdown begins.

I look exactly like a woman who has just seen hell. "Now go," he says. "Walk to the corner. Meet him. Hand him the 'evidence'." He hands me a crumpled piece of paper—a shipping manifest we stole from the pier. It lists crates of "Machinery," but Drakon has scrawled Live Cargo across it in red marker. "Go." I stumble out of the alley. I don't have to pretend to be shaky. I’m vibrating. I walk to the corner under the flickering streetlamp.

The same movement happened constantly. "Take this," the man ordered. His eyes were not looking at the young boy; ignoring his presence. Ryuu did not care less about the man's perception of him. His eyes were locked on the pamphlet that was on the table. The cover was only white in color and 'Exclusive Use Only' was the only text printed on it. Ryuu took it. The hardcover and musky scent coming from the paper were giving off wealth in it.

So far, no tantrums whatsoever. “Coow Miwk, what you weadin’?” Clutching a handful of colored Sharpees, Clancey doddered toward him to check out the manuscript he was burying his head in. “Just something for work. In the future.” “Why duh book have no covew?” Her scribbled left hand flipped the pages when he put the papers on his lap. She dropped the Sharpees on the couch.

“What if I forbid you guys from leaving this warehouse at all? What if I say I’ll trap all of you here tonight?!” The wind howled and tousled Noah’s black hair. He might’ve been standing in the rundown warehouse, but the crappy environment did nothing to diminish his elegance. Staring right into the old man’s vicious eyes, he enunciated each word and said, “If I don’t make a call to my assistant in ten minutes, then every single photocopier in my company will print these pictures all night long! Come morning, everyone in Brookesville will have a copy of Anderson’s erotic pictures.

I didn’t want to see my sad face any clearer, and I sure as hell didn’t need the walls staring at it. The screen flickered like it was nervous. Couldn’t blame it really, it had every reason to be. I printed the final page of Dutsy’s latest find—laser-inked evil typed in that coldblooded font. I folded it twice, sharped the creases, tucked it into the inside pocket of my linen jacket like a pistol with a safety catch on for the sake of sentiment. Not that I had much of that left.