Novel Berlin Novels & Stories

“The city was divided for decades. East and West. Even now, you can still feel the traces of it—not just in the buildings, but in the way people live.” “Like a city with two personalities?” Lydia asked, her gaze still fixed outside. “Exactly, Mrs. Lydia,” Andrew replied with a faint smile. “On one side, you’ll find heavy history—war, walls, conflict. But on the other hand, Berlin is incredibly alive. Art, music, freedom… they all thrive here.” “Interesting,” Lydia murmured. Beside her, Cale remained mostly quiet. Yet his hand never truly left her—sometimes holding hers, sometimes just brushing lightly against her skin, enough to make sure she was still there, still close.

Browsing, I decided to check apartments near the place I intend to work in Berlin. "Too small" i muttered at one picture.

The rain hit Berlin like it wanted to erase something. Heavy. Constant. Relentless. Noirhalle had once been a gallery. Then a private club. Then nothing a shuttered monument to obscenity, nestled in a corner of Kreuzberg between a defunct bank and a jazz café. Dorian had known of it. But never been inside. Now, he stood at its sealed entrance with Isolde beside him, a biometric scanner cracked by time and graffiti. “Do you really think the feed originated here?” he asked.

I came again, muffling screams in the pillow, ass clenching around him until he followed, flooding me with heat. We collapsed, panting, as room service knocked. He wrapped me in a robe—his, too big, smelling like him—and let them in, tipping generously. Over breakfast on the balcony, overlooking the river, he was almost... normal. Charming, even. "Tell me about Berlin," he said, feeding me a berry, juice staining his fingers. I licked it clean without thinking. "It was... freeing. At first." I sipped the mimosa, the bubbles tickling. "Cafes, museums. No one knew me. But lonely."

Chapter 66: The Berlin Underground The high-speed transport provided by Aris Thorne was a silent, black blade cutting through the stratosphere. Inside, the cabin was pressurized and sterile, a stark contrast to the scorched ruins of Tokyo. Caspian sat across from Jade, watching the way her fingers twitched rhythmically against the armrest. She wasn't sleeping. Her eyes were closed, but her pupils were darting beneath her lids. "Berlin is louder," Jade whispered, her voice sounding like two people speaking at once. "The bunker... it’s deep. They’re using the old Soviet lead-shielding to try and muffled the signal, but it’s making the 'Update' scream."

One evening, Tessa and Nico finally had enough. “You’re turning into a ghost,” Tessa said, arms crossed. “Yeah,” Nico added. “And not the hot mysterious kind, just the overworked, depressed type. We’re going out.” They didn’t give me a choice. So I went. Berlin at night was beautiful, neon signs, cobblestone streets, people laughing, living. We drifted through the crowd, stopping for drinks. For the first time in weeks, I almost felt human. And then a sharp sting tore through my side. I looked up at the man's face before I looked down, confusion clouding my mind before realization struck like lightning. Blood.

Either way, she found herself walking alongside him, trusting him completely, no questions asked. Late February in Berlin, sunlight spilled over rows of glass storefronts lining the street. A few pedestrians strolled by, wrapped in dark coats, their pace unhurried. The trees lining the road were still bare, just beginning to show signs of budding. Every so often, a fluffy dog would trot past, or the faint ring of a bicycle bell would chime in the distance. The breeze was light, still laced with winter’s chill, but not biting. Raphael walked beside her, his strides steady, never rushing. Berlin’s streets lacked Paris’s crowded charm but felt more open, freer, calmer. Walking through the city

Blood didn’t always spill with knives or guns. Sometimes, it spilled in boardrooms. Sometimes, it spilled in signatures. Sometimes, it spilled in the quiet moment when a man realized his name had been stolen long before his future ever began. Berlin woke slowly that morning, unaware that a war tied to one of the world’s most powerful bloodlines was about to ignite in its streets. Aria stood by the hotel window, staring down at the city below. Cars moved like orderly ants. People laughed. Life continued.

They watched me from the doorway of the store while Maisy waited for the movers to arrive and ensure that all our stock got picked up and taken to the airport. As I walked past the modern buildings, some brutal in style, their cold designs seemed to reflect my sorrow. Soon, I’d no longer be a part of this city. This place which had been my home for seven years would never be so again. When I reached my road, everything had become blurry as my eyes misted with emotion. Dylan must have spied me from the window. He hurried down the steps of his townhouse. Enveloping me in his arms, he said, “Whenever we have any time in the future, I promise we’ll visit.” He drew up my chin, and my lip quivered

Berlin, Germany. Kreuzberg District. Three Days Later. The freight train screeched to a halt in the industrial outskirts of Berlin. Three figures jumped from a moving boxcar, landing in the snow-covered gravel. They were filthy. They were exhausted. But they were here. "Berlin," Dr. Braun shivered, lighting a cigarette he had bummed from a hobo in Munich. "The city of ghosts and bad techno." Sebastian pulled his collar up. He was wearing a oversized military surplus jacket they had stolen from a clothesline in Poland. He looked less like a billionaire and more like a veteran of a forgotten war. "Where is Klaus?" Sebastian asked, his voice rough from the cold.