Stern Mcu Novels & Stories

This was just the beginning, and our story was far from over. “Get on, we need to go,” Armando said, his voice firm yet laced with urgency. He leaned onto his motorcycle and kicked the kickstand up as I climbed onto the back, my fingers instinctively wrapping around his tight waist. I leaned my head against his back, feeling the cool leather of his jacket beneath my cheek. The bold logo of his crew stood out prominently—a devil in the center flanked by two pitchforks, all surrounded by the lettering: *Demented Devils MC*.

“A man like that stays to watch the fire.” A slow, rhythmic clapping echoed from the hallway. Counselor Sterling stepped into the light. He was disgusting in his perfection—his suit unwrinkled, his posture arrogant. Two cleaners flanked him, their submachine guns leveled. “Well,” Sterling said, his voice smooth as silk. “This has been a remarkably resilient family reunion.” Marcus raised his weapon, but Sterling didn't blink. He looked at the sisters standing on the stairs above him. “I must admit, the ‘Two Marias’ turned out to be more than a marketing gimmick. I underestimated the biological drive to survive.”

The blue and red strobes of a dozen cruisers slashed through the darkness, lighting up the dust, the blood, and the wreckage of the Sterling family. "Sir, we have the suspects secured, and the medical team is.." Miller started, but he stopped dead the moment he saw Adrian’s face. He had served the Sterlings for a decade, seen Adrian at his coldest and most ruthless, but he had never seen his boss look like this. Adrian looked like a man whose soul was being ripped out of his chest through his throat.

Now, the silence of the Leviathan—the Ouroboros faction's flagship submarine—was absolute, a heavy, pressurized quiet that felt less like peace and more like the holding of breath before a scream. Jack Sterling stood in the decontamination airlock, the hiss of sterilization jets spraying a fine, chemical mist over his battered tactical gear. He didn't blink. The harsh white light of the chamber reflected in his eyes, which were currently devoid of the golden Alpha fire, replaced by the dull, leaden weight of a man who had seen too much.

“Hi, handsome.” Aiden looked unimpressed. “Check in. Then up to your room. Now, Lukas.” Lukas straightened and saluted him instantly. “Yes, sir.” As he backed away, Aiden was already asking Ethan, “How’s your shoulder since the stinger?” in his calm, professional tone. Ethan softened. From across the room, Sterling glanced at Mac. “Go on. Get out of here.” Mac didn’t need to be told twice. He shot Lukas a tiny wave before bolting for exit like he might break the sound barrier.

Altair turned, ready to tear the traitor apart. But Sterling didn't look like a man caught in a lie. He walked in with his usual polished, predatory grace. He was sixty-five, wearing a pin-striped suit and a look of grave concern. And he wasn't alone. Behind him marched four armed guards from the Internal Investigations unit. "Marcus," Altair said, his voice dangerous. "I was just about to call you." "I imagine you were, Altair," Sterling said smoothly. He stopped at the end of the table. He didn't look at Altair. He looked at Nova.