Puppeteer X Bloody Painter Novels & Stories

The bell over the door rings and the smell of coffee hits me, and the barista smiles like this is just another afternoon. “Hey, what can I get you?” “Coffee,” I say. “Black.” She nods and turns around, and I watch reflections in the glass instead of faces. Two wolves I do not recognize. A hunter pretending to scroll. And something else that feels wrong, like rot mixed with metal. Gus is moving pieces. I take the coffee and leave without sitting, and the second I step back outside my phone buzzes again. A call this time. “Arachne,” I say when I answer.

"You need to buy Lonely Sunset. It is the best piece you will ever see." Now all the rich alphas understand. They see that this painting is a masterpiece. I made it with just a few quick moves of my hand, and I changed the whole werewolf world. "I am bidding one hundred and twenty million pack resources!" a powerful alpha screams out. The price goes up so fast. Most of the wolves in the room look sad. They know their pack accounts cannot pay that much. Now only the biggest mafia bosses can play this game. "One hundred and thirty million!" a man with a scarred face yells.

I suddenly felt a big hammer pounding my head, causing me to hold on to the bed frame and close my eyes because of dizziness. A sudden scene crossed my mind. Inside, the cell with a red werewolf facing Alarick and Convel. “A sanguis.” Both Alarick and Convel said as they were staring at a two-tailed red werewolf. In return, the red werewolf gave them a low growl. Instead of being scared, Alarick and Convel looked fascinated by the sight. The bloody color of the werewolf is shining as well as the two tails it keeps on swaying.

IRIS It’s already dark when I woke up and I can feel my puffed eyes due to crying. I tried to open the lights and couldn’t believe that it still works. I look through dad’s old stuffs that my mom didn’t bother to pack up because it will only remind us of him. His books, his glasses, the bean bags that he set especially for me so that I wouldn't feel lonely when he's working. Oh Did I mention that he was an author? He was known for the pen name Morpheus and had lots of followers and readers online. He was a famous fantasy writer, and the book, entitled Iris, was supposed to be his last piece. But it was incomplete so it was not acknowledged. Dad's account is still alive, but no one can access

She chuckled, turning her head at me. “Promise me you won’t sell this, Red,” she laughed. I shook my head, my shoulders shaking as I laughed with her. “I will keep this. You didn’t tell me you have this kind of talent, but you got my lips wrong.” I raised my hand, my index finger pointing at the curve of the lips of her stick man drawing. Aya glanced at me and then nodded. “Paint again, Red,” she murmured. “I can’t. Since Scarlett died, I felt like I could not paint anymore,” I muttered sadly, glancing at the last piece I made, Scarlett and our twins.

she snapped, “I need to get back the shop before the boss has my head. Is this about the Bloody Barbies again?” Bloody Barbie was the nickname Maria gave to the murders ever since she’d gotten involved as a suspect. It was an apt name. Each crime scene that had been investigated was painted red with each victim’s blood, and in each one there would be a bloody doll left behind (though, not exactly a Barbie), no less than three feet away from the body.

The next morning I proved it to myself by actually showing up to class early, sketchbook already open on my lap when Professor Laurent walked in. He was in one of his dramatic moods—scarf flung over one shoulder, gesturing with both hands as he lectured about decay as aesthetic rebellion. Halfway through, he stopped, clapped once, and grinned like he’d just invented the idea himself. “Your next project,” he announced, “is titled Urban Decay. I want you to go out into the city. Find the places most people avoid. The rotting piers, the abandoned lots, the alleys where the streetlights don’t reach. Draw what you see. But more than that—draw what you feel when you’re standing there. The beauty i

One wrong whisper, one wrong rumor, and everything Sophie and Xavier were trying to build could shatter. I pushed it down. Focus. Protect them. Protect our children. Protect the future we’re fighting for. The first artist lived above a pottery guild. She answered the door with ink on her fingers and irritation in her eyes. “You think I’m sneaking around with protest paint?” she scoffed. “Half my work is murals. The red you saw on the walls? Wrong mix. That was cheap stuff. Mine’s imported. Cost me triple.” She shoved a crate of pigments at me, receipts clipped neatly to the side.

Gail felt his fine hair stand on end. “But this painting is amazing, painted like real. I think the painter was very rich at that time. Hmm…” Gail then stood up and looked around. “I only saw one painting here. However, I did not find another painting anywhere. Have the termites eaten it? But why is this painting not eaten? Ah… The things of the past are mysterious.” Gail then took the shabby cloth and covered the photo again. “Sorry I can't hang you back, your frame has been shattered. But I will still cover you with this cloth, so you don't get dusty easily."

he continued, ripping my clothes with his bare hands, exposing my erect nipples. My breath came in sharp gasps as my eyes met the ground. Deep down, I didn’t want to go through the pain of another master, yet I still wanted to be sold. I pressed my lips together. “She’s pretty, truly, she can be useful in bed,” a man suddenly said. “I will pay two hundred grams,” a man bid. My hand clenched hard as the bids continued until it fell on the round-bellied man. “Going once, going twice sol-”