Thriller Narrator Novels & Stories

“You don’t trust me. That’s fine. If you think I’m going to do something, pull the trigger.” “Why are you doing this?” “Because I’m serious, Zandra, I just want to talk. I need you to listen, and if this is the only way you feel safe, then so be it.” There isn’t any room left between us. He forces me to jam the gun against his chest over his heart, one wrong move on my part and he’s dead. “Thorton, stop it!” “I don’t have a lot of time.” His breath ghosts against my cheeks. It takes all my strength not to claim those lips for my own. “I didn’t order a hit on your brother. I didn’t instruct any of my men to attack you. Someone set me up. Someone by the name of Detective Rossi.”

I can only hear gunshots and the heavy thumps of corpses hitting the ground around me. Both my brain and my stomach are throbbing with excruciating pain. I'm curled up like a foetus, anxiously trying to protect my body from the flurry of bullets flying by. The bullets seem to go forever before stopping. I pull my head free of my arms and sneak a peek. My nose is assaulted by a familiar intoxicating scent, I don't need to look up to know who's standing in front of me. I sit up ignoring the protest of my body oozing with pain. Roman eyes me intently, his gaze sweeping over my body. He extends a hand, I immediately grab on to it and he hoists me up gently. He struts over to his car. Roman's mad

“Hard to miss, really. Dead body, tense atmosphere, you pointing a gun at me. Whole thing is very clear. HAHA.” Quinn took a step closer, her grip steady, her expression unreadable as she studied him more carefully now. He wasn’t as composed as she had first thought. “Let’s try this again,” she said. “Why are you here?” He let out a short breath, almost a laugh, but there was an edge to it. “I told you, my name is Damian. I heard about the case and got curious.” “That’s not enough.” Quinn replied. “I know, I know,” he said quickly, nodding like he was trying to keep up with his own thoughts. “It sounds bad. Random guy shows up, stands near a dead body, refuses to explain himself. I get it. N

Making sure no one sees me nor hears my evil laugh. “Miss Jen, what are her last words before going out?” the investigator asked. Jen cleared her throat and exhaled heavily before answering the question. “She told me that she is going to meet here someone named Joshua,” she answered. “Who is Joshua?” asked one of my classmates. The investigator raised his palm stopping him from questioning. “I should be the one asking her. Do not meddle,” the investigator said. His name is Mr. Scott. I just saw it in his badge to his chest. “So, who’s Joshua?”

There was no denying that he possessed the potential to be a formidable asset in our pursuit of the truth. His eyes met mine, sharp and observant, as he began to recount the events of his surveillance. His report would provide the missing puzzle pieces, shedding light on Natalia's elusive movements and the secrets she held within her clandestine world. I leaned forward, my gaze unwavering, as Rhys painted a vivid picture of the shadows he had trailed, the whispers he had caught, and the subtle hints of intrigue he had unraveled.

The morning the second leak went live, the city felt colder. Not in temperature—but in tension. I sipped my coffee by the window, watching the clouds roll over the skyline like bruises swelling across the sky. Lucas had left at dawn, chasing another lead. Noah was at school, safe for now. And I? I was waiting. For what, exactly—I wasn’t sure. The storm, maybe. Or the man who’d created it. By noon, Victor Thorne’s name was officially under federal investigation. The audio from the Zurich drive had gone public—raw, grainy, undeniable. He spoke plainly, as if experimenting on dying patients was just business.

Nightmares started the moment I fell unconscious. They were not nightmares, actually-they were memories. Fractured, disjointed, and painfully vivid: running through some sort of alleyway not very well-lit, heart pounding against my chest, after a figure not very clear. The weight of the gun in my hand was natural; it felt right. The adrenaline was intoxicating, yet there was a chill of calculatedness in my moves. There were voices in my earpiece, barking orders. "Thorne, proceed with caution. Target is armed and dangerous." Thorne. That voice had said my name. Not a nickname, not a fake identity—my real name. And the certainty that followed was like a punch to the gut: I had been an FBI agen

He adjusts the microphone and begins speaking like he’s reporting traffic — low, calm, unfazed. He describes the scene after Richard’s fall like he was standing on the terrace. Blood everywhere. Isadora screaming. Me — standing still. Cold. Blank. He doesn’t say I attacked. He doesn’t say I hit. He just... paints a picture. And lets the jury color in the rest. My spine stiffens with every word. I don't dare look at the jury. But I know exactly what they’re hearing. A man with a reputation for being distant. A disfigured billionaire with power and money and reasons to kill.

His voice was sharp with curiosity, and his strides were quick. "He took his own life," Rafael said, shaking his head. "Guess he decided dying was better than getting caught. Pretty typical for an assassin, though." Rafael paused and added thoughtfully, "That’s just how these trained killers work—kill without hesitation and die when cornered." Hunter’s thoughts immediately flashed to one name—Shadows. That’s the kind of assassin capable of something like this, he realized. "Alpha Hunter, we’ll take it from here. Thanks for all your help. We’ll also handle the kidnapped doctor," the SWAT leader said, nodding respectfully. Hunter turned his attention to a newly arrived vehicle. Out stepped the