Next Strike Novels & Stories

This is pressure applied with intention. Mariela stands to my left, arms folded, eyes moving across the feeds faster than most people can process what they’re seeing. “He’s mobilizing from the east corridor,” she says quietly. On one screen, I see it—vehicles pulling out too fast, headlights cutting sharp angles across wet pavement. “He thinks this is the main strike,” I reply. “He’ll expect a third hit on a visible asset.” I shake my head slightly. “He’ll get a fourth.” The third domino falls twelve minutes later.

Not with lights. With movement. Teams repositioned without being told. Watchers shifted angles. The benches activated quietly, runners moving from district to district, confirming headcounts, infrastructure status, morale. This was the city’s new reflex—distributed, calm, stubbornly human. And still, Whisper did nothing. Minutes passed. Then ten. Then twenty. People began to breathe again, cautiously. That was when the first strike landed. It came from inside the city. A controlled detonation ruptured beneath an abandoned distribution hub in the north quadrant—not enough to collapse the structure, but enough to expose what lay beneath it. Old Dominion-era conduits, long thought dead, flared

“I think there’s no better way to convince someone of your sincerity and authenticity than by talking to them in person and letting them look you in the eyes. Gauge your demeanor, sense any lies, ask whatever questions they want and assess the answers.” “A good strategy.” “Yes, which is also why I had hoped to have this conversation with you in person.” Laura wasn’t ready to forgive and forget just yet. “So, were you successful? In Chicago?” “I think so,” he said, letting out a deep breath. “But it worries me that this commenter was able to strike and do that much damage. It has to be a competitor, someone who really understands the intricacies of our type of business. I don’t know who else

“Chill, bro. When I take him down, you’ll have a few moments to punch him in his face.” “We should respond. Send him our own warning.” “No need.” I ascend the stairs. “This isn't a game. He already crossed the line by threatening me. So when we strike, we strike to destroy. Not warn!” ***** Dusk meets me in my study. I have spent the last few hours calling some of my contacts and preparing to strike. First, I will hit Marcello where it hurts. Marcello doesn't care about anything but his business. Specifically, his drug business.

I decided to treat it as a proper vacation. But to my surprise, a few days later, the coworkers from my team came to my door. “Bailey, we were all fired.” I froze. It turned out that after my suspension, the whole department had gone on strike to demand justice for me. At first, Chuck tried to shut them down with threats and empty promises. But Freya didn’t care at all. She simply told all of them to get out. So they were really fired. Several of them were senior employees who had fought beside me for years.

Instead, as he lunged forward, I gathered every ounce of strength in my body and slammed my open palm directly across his face. SLAP! The force of the strike sent his head snapping to the side. His chest heaved violently as he glared at me, utterly shocked by my audacity. I had actually struck him. "You absolute bitch! You dare raise your hand to me?!" he roared, rearing his own heavy hand back, ready to deliver a devastating blow. I didn't flinch. I stood my ground, staring him down, daring him to strike me in public. Dorian’s hand never came down, because in that exact second, a massive, shadowed fist slammed into the side of his face with devastating power, sending him stumbling wildly ba

It diverted her attention a bit. He broke free from her tight grip and punched her hard on the face as she attempted to pull off his cap, which pulled her to the back so painfully and gave the man more leverage to attack her. He came harder for her with an attempt to snap off the bone of her neck, but she aimed at his eyes and hit high with her elbow using the greatest of her strength.

"Mr. Simpson, it's too late. Some things, once broken, can't be put back together. "And Jonathan made it very clear—his building isn't for people without basic decency. A company that treats its employees like trash doesn't deserve to be there." "Leave. Don't make me call the police." With that, I shut the door without hesitation. The knocking and pleading outside went on for a while—then finally stopped. I leaned against the door and let out a long breath. After sending them away, I received a call from Jonathan. "Sandra, I heard someone came to bother you just now?"

"Once the baby's here, you'll realize who truly treats you well! Jonas is just a coward who's never good enough for you!" As he reached out to tear at her clothes, the hunger in his eyes made her sick. In a desperate urge, she swung her hand and slapped him with every strength she had. With a sharp crack, Elton's head snapped to the side, and a red welt immediately bloomed on his face. He froze, then his expression twisted with fury. Tracie seized the chance to shove him away. She stumbled back and grabbed a vase from the table. She smashed it on the floor, sending shards flying everywhere.

“Until Miss Lucy wakes up, I have no choice but to issue you a warning strike.” I blinked. “A what” “In the academy,” he explained, his tone clinical, “five strikes mean expulsion. A warning strike is your first.” My mouth went dry. “But I did not….” He cut me off gently but firmly. “There is nothing more to discuss. You may go now. When Miss Lucy wakes, her statement will determine if the strike becomes permanent.” “Okay,” I muttered, as I stood before leaving his office. The moment I stepped out, Ivy rushed toward me.