Romans & histoires Masked Ninja

I just want to be able to forget everything for a few hours. Suddenly, I feel the air moving behind me, slightly to my left. By pure reflex acquired by years of intensive training, I bend to my right with superhuman speed and feel an excruciating pain along my left leg. Leaning forward, I kick back, praying that it will crush my opponent's nose, but I only hit his torso. I turn around to face a man dressed in black. His hood shows only his eyes, which are as black and expressionless as those of a shark. In his hand is a knife covered with my blood that glows in the darkness.

I should have trusted my first instincts. “So why the whole fucking charade?” I ask. “What’s going on here?” “Well, it all has to do with that serial killer from September. He’s not a random psychopath. He’s Ninja.” Fuck. My fears confirmed. Ninja was the code name of Nick Jin, a former PSK who went rogue and was therefore turned over by THEM to the Feds. He was known as Ninja because, prior to joining THEM, he used the disguise of a ninja and used various samurai weapons to murder his victims. If Nick Jin really has gotten free and is on the loose, that is bad news for THEM.

Steel-Fist Predator said calmly but mocked him internally “Steel-fist while what you say makes sense I think Sword-saint still has a point, killing a child just because of such trivialities seems utterly absurd.” Flame-heart predator replied Steel-fist predator with a sneer “It seems Flame-heart has forgotten the history lessons we got when we were still basic Hunters, the only times glass-eyed Hunters appeared, they almost destroyed the entire race single handedly, unless you want a replay of the Great Massacre I’d advise we end the kid to avoid future troubles.” White-haired predator said grimly

While dodging the knife, I grabbed the wall for support forgetting that I wasn't supposed to touch anything. The tears stirred awake almost immediately under my touch, the light flooded the temple and I finally got a glimpse at my attackers, the five masked men were dressed in black and were armed with different weapons. They covered their eyes with their free hands as they shielded their sight from the sudden light. The green tears flowed towards me with a rush. They hummed as I stretched my hands to receive their powers, they molded on my wrists and stretched forward like a whip towards my enemies. I thought Natalí's tears were meant to heal only.

Emily shifted into a big white wolf, stopping the Hunters from chasing her. She's facing those punks, panting, but she gritted her teeth when one of the Hunters throws a silver knife toward her. She growled soundly. "Surround her!" The hunter in a black hat ordered. His men followed; they surrounded Emily as she began to roar with anger visible on it. The hunters tried to shoot Emily, but she dodged it, and in just a snap, she was killing those punks who wanted to hurt her.

Blend in, keep your head down, and move on before anyone gets too close. As she walked down the bustling hallway, murmurs and whispers followed her. She was used to it. She didn't just blend in. She found her locker and fumbled with the combination, her hands trembling slightly. As she opened it, she caught a glimpse of herself in the small mirror inside. Her long, curly silver hair cascaded down her back like molten moonlight, shimmering with an otherworldly glow. It was the kind of hair that defied explanation, the kind that drew eyes and sparked curiosity exactly what she didn't need.

Nicholas made his way quickly down the wet lane. All the muscles in his body ached. He didn't want any more time. Adrian's eyes were everywhere. The note at the hideout was a statement rather than merely a warning. He needed to get back to Allison. Nicholas sensed it, even though the streets were oddly silent. The weight of invisible eyes followed every step he took. This was not something he had time for. His fingers tightened around his rifle. A shadow lunged at him as he turned the corner. Before Nicholas could react, a powerful force struck him, pushing him up against a damp brick wall. Then, gritting his teeth and swinging his arm to knock his assailant back, he shot through his ribs.

The first confrontation was not physical but psychological, a battle of influence, anticipation, and ethical positioning. Madison scaled a rooftop, manipulating shadows and light to shape perception. Stepbrother guided the central flow, ensuring our moves remained anticipatory rather than reactive. Ian applied pressure along the flank, nudging adversaries toward misjudgment without direct aggression. I orchestrated rhythm, timing every movement and communication to maximize coordination while minimizing unnecessary harm.

I pulled into his house, no need for forced entry, I had a mod, unlocked the door and strode peacefully to his bathroom. I pulled the knife out, wore my apron and pulled the knife on the neck, careful not to splash much blood on myself. I pulled my Journal, it was a little rough but it kept all that was left of my sanity. Dipping a feather into the cutthroat, I wrote, No. 57: unknown, but looks exactly like her. ***

He caught me mid-air and slammed me to the mat—without enough force to injure but enough to piss me off. I rolled, kicked up, and slashed at his arm. He blocked with his forearm, the wood of the practice blade cracking on contact. "You're holding back," I said, panting. "So are you." We locked blades again, his grip iron. His forearm flexed, and I couldn't help but notice the tattoo beneath his sleeve. It looked like... a raven. Black, simple, dangerous. Mafia elite. My suspicion deepened. With a snarl, I broke free, ducked under his arm, and landed a kick to his side. He grunted but didn't move.