Novel & Cerita Novel Wall Panel

A permanent mark from the rejection, her wolf's mourning made visible. She looked nothing like Lila Winstone. That was the point. --- The apartment was a museum of cold precision. Open-concept, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the Windfall City skyline. Gray concrete walls. A black leather sofa that had never been sat on by anyone but her. A kitchen island made of polished quartz, completely clean except for a single mug with cold coffee in it — she never finished her coffee. An office nook with three monitors arranged in a curve, schematics still open on the central screen: the next-generation prosthetic knee joint she was developing for NovaTech's Q4 release.

“My first canvas after I returned to the craft was a tribute to him. It hangs in Mother’s living quarters. I have captured his likeness a thousand times.” “I pray for a daughter. I wish to spoil a little wolf-pup exactly as I spoil her mother.” I scanned the room, pouting slightly, choosing to pivot. “Rowan, do you intend to strip the wall-coverings?” “Babe, they are from the nineteen-sixties.” “But I adore the bold, aggressive florals.” “We shall negotiate. Many of these partitions will fall to create an open floor-plan so we can oversee the pups from any corner, but perhaps I can have the pattern replicated for a single wall.”

Soft rugs were scattered around in different shapes that were playful, comforting. Against the far wall, a reading nook had been built with shelves filled from top to bottom. Picture books for the little ones, novels of all kinds for the older ones. Damn near every topic that you could think of. Fiction, non-fiction, manga, history, lore, etc. A huge, cushioned bench wrapped along the windows, covered in pillows so fluffy even I wanted to curl up on them.

Alex watched Vincenzo's reflection in the brass panels—the line of his jaw, the way his hands were steady at his sides, the pulse that beat at his throat. The doors opened onto a space that was nothing like the estate. The penthouse was open, airy, walls of glass that looked out over the city. The furniture was modern, sparse, chosen with care. A kitchen with marble counters. A living area with a couch that faced the windows. A hallway that led to rooms Alex couldn't see. But what caught his attention was the wall. It was covered in photographs. Dozens of them. Hundreds. Some framed, some pinned, some tucked into the edges of others. And in every single one, Alex recognized himself.

I stand in front of the cartridge dispenser and make myself not look at it. The child has not forgiven me for stepping back. Good. Let it be angry. Angry is alive. The far wall splits, less like a door than a reveal. The panels peel back so smoothly that the dust on the floor does not move. White panels slide away to expose a black circular console sunk into the floor. Two handplates rest on either side of it, separated by a strip of glass. One plate is silver-veined. The other is matte black. Above them, a transparent cylinder drops from the ceiling.

They were totally unfamiliar and one that people would only imagine in their dreams. I was on a very comfy bed. The room was mammoth and the walls of the room were painted in dark charcoal grey paint which made the room fetching and spooky at the same time. Speaking of spooky, on the right side of the bed was a wall with three panels of windows, touching the floor. What made them noticeable was the haunting view from the outside. There were trees and trees and trees. Nothing else. The rest of the room was filled with normal things like the rug, black and white paintings at the head of the bed, vanilla scented long heightened candles which were lit and placed below the window, small heightene

“It makes sense that there would be a tunnel entrance here. Assassins love the chaos of parties.” I swallowed nervously and nodded as I looked around. I could only imagine the terror that would come along with discovering that someone at your own party was poisoned or killed in some other way; the screaming, the people running around, the crying children… I tried not to think about it. As I looked around, I noticed that the walls were painted with ornate depictions of what looked like werewolves and humans. I took a step closer to get a better look. The first panel depicted humans and wolves running together with the light of the full moon over them. The wolves were enormous; three times the

I locked the door and put my clutch and file on the table. The walls were brighter red than outer and one wall was carrying a different shade of light yellow colour and golden clouds on it. Expensive paintings were hanging on the wall. On my right side, there was a big dark screen mounted over the wall. There was a queen-size bed with a white cover and cushions. I plopped on the brown couch and stared at the dark screen.

But the centerpiece of the apartment was the wall in the living room—our wall. Daniel had painted it himself, a vibrant mural of two figures standing side by side against a starry night sky. He called it our “couple wall,” a symbol of our journey together. I smiled every time I looked at it, remembering how he’d stayed up late, paint smudged on his cheek, meticulously bringing the design to life.