Novels by Sweet-muoth

Bishop Knox didn’t disappear. He adapted. That truth arrived at 2:17 a.m., wrapped in a single notification that lit Kairo’s phone like a warning flare.UNKNOWN NUMBER: You taught me silence. Let me teach you loss. Kairo was already moving before the message finished loading. “Wake Crow,”he told Lena. “Now.”She was out of the room in seconds. The warehouse lights hummed on, harsh and unforgiving. Kairo pulled up feeds, street cams, financial alerts, anything that twitched. Nothing. That was the problem.Crow entered, jacket half-on, eyes sharp. “What happened?”“Nothing,”Kairo said. “Which means something’s about to.”As if summoned, Crow’s phone rang. He answered. Listened. Went pale.“They hit one of my couriers,”Crow said. “Alive. But broken.”Lena cursed. “Bishop.”Crow nodded. “He left a message carved into the floor.”Kairo’s jaw tightened. “What did it say?”Crow swallowed. “Structures crack from inside.”Silence fell.“That’s not random,”Lena said. “That’s a warning.”Kai

Bishop Knox vanished too cleanly. That was the first problem. The second was how quiet Blackgate became afterward. No retaliation. No rumors. No bodies. Silence that felt staged.Kairo noticed it from the warehouse balcony, watching traffic crawl like veins of light through the city.“Power doesn’t retreat,”he said. “It relocates.”Lena leaned on the rail beside him. “You beat him.”“I displaced him,”Kairo replied. “That’s different.”Behind them, Crow ended a call sharply and joined them, expression unreadable. “Bishop’s assets are scattering,”Crow said. “Not collapsing.”Kairo turned. “Meaning?”“Meaning someone’s absorbing them,”Crow replied. “Quietly.”Lena frowned. “Who?”Crow hesitated. That hesitation was loud. The meeting happened two hours later. Not underground. Not hidden. Forty floors up, in a glass tower that overlooked the city like a god with good taste.Security waved them through without checking names. That was the warning. Inside, a woman waited near the window,

The place Bishop chose was deliberate. An old courthouse downtown, condemned, gutted, forgotten by the city but still standing like a warning. Marble floors cracked. Statues blindfolded and broken. Justice abandoned but not erased.Kairo arrived alone. That mattered. He stepped inside, footsteps echoing too loud, cane tapping once against stone before he forced himself to stop using it. Tonight, he would not limp. A voice drifted from the shadows.“You’re late.”Bishop Knox stepped into the light, immaculate as ever, hands clasped behind his back like a man inspecting property. “I wasn’t late,”Kairo replied. “You were early.”Bishop smiled faintly. “Still correcting people.”“Still owning them,” Kairo said.They stood ten feet apart. No weapons visible. That was the lie. “You cost me three safe houses,”Bishop said calmly. “And embarrassed me.”“You burned down my home,”Kairo replied. “And killed my family.”Bishop tilted his head. “Old Joe was collateral.”Kairo didn’t blink. “So w

Bishop Knox did not rage. He adjusted. That was why people feared him. The call came at dawn. Crow listened in silence, phone pressed to his ear, eyes unreadable. When he ended the call, he didn’t look at Kairo right away. “He knows,”Crow said finally. Lena stiffened. “Knows what?”“That Marrow folded,”Crow replied. “That someone spoke into his ear.”Kairo exhaled slowly. “So he moves.”“Yes,”Crow said. “And he won’t come for you first.”Kairo frowned. “Why not?”Crow met his eyes. “Because killing symbols is louder than killing men.”The first body dropped before noon. A street enforcer named Holt. Found in his car, hands bound, mouth stuffed with cash. The message spread fast. Bishop’s signature. Lena slammed her fist against the table. “He’s punishing disobedience.”“And resetting fear,”Crow said. Kairo stared at the photo on the screen. Holt had laughed with him once, over cheap beer. “He wants me to respond,”Kairo said.Crow nodded. “If you don’t, you look weak.”“And if I d

The smell of smoke clung to Kairo’s clothes long after the flames were gone. They stood across the street from what used to be the pawnshop. Blackened brick. Twisted metal. A crowd held back by yellow tape and quiet curiosity.Lena hadn’t spoken in ten minutes. Kairo hadn’t breathed properly in longer. Detective Mara Quinn moved through the wreckage with practiced detachment, eyes sharp, notebook already half full.She stopped in front of them. “You knew the owner,”she said. Kairo nodded once. “He was family.”Mara studied his face. “Then I’m sorry.”He believed her. That made it worse. “We think it was arson,”she continued. “Targeted. Fast. Professional.”Lena’s voice cracked. “You think?”Mara glanced at her. “Someone wanted to send a message.”Kairo met the detective’s gaze. “Message received.”Mara hesitated. “If you know something,”“I don’t,”Kairo said evenly. She nodded slowly. “You will.”She turned back to the wreckage. Lena exhaled shakily. “She knows.”“Yes,” Kairo said.

The city didn’t wait for decisions. It punished hesitation.Kairo felt that truth settle into his bones as he stood on the pawnshop roof before dawn, watching Blackgate breathe beneath him, traffic lights blinking, sirens fading, secrets moving from hand to hand.Lena joined him, coffee in one hand, tension in the other. “You didn’t sleep,”she said. Kairo didn’t turn. “Neither did you.”She handed him the cup. “Bishop’s been making calls.”“That’s never good.”“No,”she agreed. “It means someone’s about to disappear.”Kairo finally faced her. “Who?”Lena hesitated. “Maybe you.”Silence stretched between them. “You met Crow,”she said. “Yes.”“And you didn’t tell Bishop right away.”“I told him,”Kairo replied. “I didn’t agree to anything.”Lena studied his face. “That’s not what scares me.”Before he could respond, Bishop’s voice cut through the air. “Both of you. Inside.”The back room felt smaller than before. Bishop stood by the table, a burner phone glowing in his hand.“Elias Cr

George woke up screaming. Not because of pain. Because of silence. No heartbeat thundered in his ears. No breath burned his lungs. No weight pressed his body into the ground. He opened his eyes.And realized he was floating. Not falling. Not rising. Suspended in a vast, dim expanse that looked like the inside of a forgotten cathedral, pillars of shadow stretching infinitely upward, symbols drifting through the air like ash.George tried to inhale. The instinct was there. The response was not Panic surged. “I can’t breathe,” he said. His voice echoed… then folded back into itself, as if the space had considered his words before allowing them to exist.A second later, realization hit harder than fear. He didn’t need to breathe. George looked down at himself. He still had a body, arms, legs, hands, but they shimmered faintly, like heat rising off asphalt.Veins glowed beneath his skin, pulsing with a deep blue light that wasn’t blood.Memories flickered at the edges of his mind. Not his.

George did not land. He kept falling. There was no ground. No sky. No sense of direction. Only motion.It felt like being dragged through the inside of a thought that hadn’t been finished yet, half-formed ideas scraping against his skin, whispers brushing past his ears without words.His scream never made a sound. Then, Pain. White-hot and sudden. George slammed into something solid and rolled hard, the impact knocking the air from his lungs. He gasped, clawing at nothing, vision swimming.For a terrifying second, he thought he’d gone blind. Then the world snapped into focus. He lay on cracked stone, etched with symbols that shifted when he tried to look directly at them.Above him stretched a sky that wasn’t a sky at all, a swirling expanse of fractured color, like reality had shattered and someone forgot to clean it up. Asher groaned nearby.George pushed himself up, muscles screaming.“You alive?” George rasped.Asher coughed. “Define alive.George staggered to him, helping him si

The sky split open. Not with thunder. Not with lightning. It peeled apart, as if reality itself had grown tired of pretending it was whole. George felt it before he saw it. The fragment inside his chest screamed.He staggered backward, breath hitching, as pressure crushed down on him from above. The air thickened, vibrating with an unnatural frequency that rattled his teeth Asher grabbed his arm. “Don’t move.”George laughed weakly. “You say that like I can.”Above them, the clouds spiraled faster, symbols burning brighter, ancient runes spinning like gears in a cosmic machine. Then the first Execution Warden descended.It didn’t fall. It lowered, suspended by invisible force, its massive armored body forged from obsidian-black metal etched with glowing sigils. Its eyes burned a cold, surgical white. No rage. No emotion. Just purpose.George’s pulse thundered. “So those are the Wardens,”he muttered. “They look… friendly.”Asher didn’t smile. “They were created to erase anomalies,”h

The candle went out. Not flickered. Not dimmed. It vanished, snuffed by something that hated light. Darkness swallowed the room. George’s instincts screamed. “MOVE!”he shouted. The black wooden door exploded inward. Not with force, but with absence. Space itself tore open, folding inward as shadows poured through like liquid night.The temperature plummeted so fast George’s breath crystallized in his lungs. Asher slammed a hand against George’s chest. “Don’t look directly at it!”Asher barked. Too late. George saw the Sovereign. It did not fully enter the room. It couldn’t. Instead, its presence bled through the doorway, an immense silhouette made of overlapping voids and burning fractures of light.Faces writhed within its form, mouths opening in silent screams. The floor cracked. Walls groaned. The air bent toward it. George dropped to one knee, pain exploding behind his eyes. The fragment inside him reacted.Blue fire flared beneath his skin. “No,”George hissed, clutching his che

George hit the ground HARD.Air slammed out of his lungs, dust exploding upward as his body skidded across cracked pavement. The world around him spun, blinding light, blaring horns, shouting voices. He lay on his back, staring up at a gray morning sky. Rain clouds choked the horizon. Car tires screeched somewhere nearby.A woman shouted, “HEY! YOU ALMOST HIT HIM!”George groaned, pushing himself up. His bones felt… new. Softer. Younger. The familiar heaviness of a seasoned fighter was gone. His joints didn’t ache. His muscles were lean, not hardened by violence.He wasn’t broken. He wasn’t dying. He wasn’t bleeding. He was alive. And human again. A teenager, maybe seventeen. A crowd gathered around him.“Kid, you alright?”“Should we call someone?”“Is he hurt?”George blinked. Final life… this is my final life. The boy’s last warning echoed like thunder in his skull: “If Asher hesitates even once, RUN.”George staggered to his feet, ignoring the hands reaching to help him. He didn’

George slammed back into existence with a violent jolt, landing on hard stone. His breath ripped from his lungs as a shock of pain shot through his ribs. Darkness surrounded him. Cold. Heavy. Wrong.He coughed, pushing himself upright. The chamber he was in felt ancient, pillars carved with shifting spirals, walls breathing faint silver mist. The air tasted like metal and forgotten prayers. He wasn’t alone.A massive shadow formed behind him. George froze, every muscle locking. “Seventh Soul…”The voice was everywhere. Inside his ears. Inside his skull. Inside his bones. The Sovereign had followed him. “No,”George whispered, backing away. “You shouldn’t be here. The First Soul said”“The First Soul is gone,”the Sovereign rumbled. “The White Layer has broken. You cannot hide anymore.”The temperature dropped so fast George’s breath turned to frost. He forced himself to stand straighter.“You said they built me to end everything,” George spat. “Why me? Why not someone stronger? Smarte

The first scream came from the seventh floor at exactly 3:17 a.m. It was sharp. Animal. Wrong. James Wood was awake before it echoed a second time.He stood by the window of his office, hands clasped behind his back, watching the city lights flicker like dying stars. When the scream cut through the hospital walls, his lips curved, not into a smile, but into something colder. James (quietly): “So it begins.”THE PATIENT WHO SHOULD NOT HAVE SCREAMED. Nurse Elina burst into the corridor, breathless. Elina: “Dr. Wood! It’s Victor, Room 712. He’s, he’s screaming about fire under his skin!”James didn’t turn immediately. James: “Vital signs?”Elina: “Pulse unstable. Blood pressure spiking. He says his nerves feel like they’re, like they’re burning alive.”James picked up his coat. James: “Good. Stage One has fully activated.”Elina froze. Elina: “Stage… One?”James finally faced her. James: “Prepare the isolation room. And notify the others.”Elina: “The others?”James: “All seven. Tonight,

The darkness did not feel accidental. It felt chosen. Total blackout. No emergency glow. No hallway lights. No machine hum. Just breathing. Seven different rhythms of fear. And one steady pulse of control.James Wood stood unmoving in the pitch-black room. He could hear them. Victor’s shallow gasps.Maria’s trembling inhale. Michael trying to mask panic behind anger. Rebecca whispering numbers again.Samuel muttering prayers. Sandra choking on silent sobs. Reeves pacing blindly. Then James spoke. Soft Precise. James: “Now… we remove distraction.”Maria’s voice cracked. Maria: “James, please… stop this.”James: “You said that before.”Silence swallowed the room again. THE SYSTEM HE BUILT IN SECRET Emergency backup lights flickered on, but only dim strips along the floor.Just enough to see outlines. Not faces. The monitors behind them rebooted. A new interface glowed on screen. PHASE TWO, COGNITIVE RESTORATION PROTOCOL Michael read it first. His voice shook.Michael: “Restoration? Wha

The first mistake James ever made… Was believing he was the only one who could plan. The second… Was believing the past stayed buried. The Oversight Director did not blink. Security escorted the seven patients out of the sealed wing one by one.Maria looked back at James as they wheeled her away. Not hatred. Not love. Something worse. Unfinished truth. When the doors finally shut, only three people remained inside the dimmed chamber: James. Elina. The Director.The Director held up the tablet again. “Three days ago,”he said calmly, “an anonymous petition demanded the exhumation of James Wood.”James did not move. “Grounds?”he asked. “Suspicion of financial coercion before death. Alleged irregularities in the inheritance transfer.”Maria. Or one of the seven. Or someone else entirely. The Director studied James carefully. “You’ve taken a remarkable interest in these patients, Doctor.”“They are under my care.”“You’ve built an entire research wing around them.”“They volunteered.”Th

Rain hammered the hospital roof like fists demanding entry. Inside St. Haven Medical Center, the air felt heavier than before, like every wall remembered what had been said yesterday.James Wood walked through the corridor, coat swinging behind him. Nurses stepped aside. Patients lowered their eyes. The silence that followed him felt like a crown, and a warning.He had returned to the world not just as a man. But as something reshaped by betrayal. At the nurse’s desk, Elina hurried after him.Elina: “Dr. Wood, your seven private patients are here again. They came early. All of them.”James: “Good. Let them wait.Elina: “They look… terrified.”James paused.James: “Terror means progress.”THE KILLERS GATHERIn Room 12B, the seven conspirators sat around a table. No laughter. No arrogance. Only fear. Samuel’s left arm twitched uncontrollably. Rebecca blinked rapidly, her vision flickering like broken film.Victor massaged his temples, murmuring to himself. Clinton Reeves fought for bre

The storm rolled across the city like a warning. Thunder rattled the hospital windows. Lightning flashed through the halls, white and violent. The air smelled like rain and electricity, like a world about to change.Inside St. Haven Medical Center, the waiting room overflowed with patients, but seven chairs remained reserved. Seven chairs, separated from the rest. Seven chairs with seven names.Maria Wood. Michael Tenneson. Sandra Blake. Dr. Clinton Reeves. Rebecca Hall. Victor Dane. Samuel Cray.Every one of them here. Every one of them trembling. Nurse Elina rushed to James with a clipboard. “Doctor,”she said, anxious, “they’re all waiting. They want answers.”James slid on his gloves. “They’ll get them,” he replied.“One by one.”CONFLICT IGNITES IMMEDIATELYBefore James could step forward, Samuel Cray staggered out of his seat. Sweat drenched his face, and his left hand twitched uncontrollably.“Wood! We need to talk!”Samuel shouted. The room went silent.James turned slowly. “M

The morning fog clung to the hospital windows like ghostly fingerprints, distorting the light and giving the corridors a muted, dreamlike glow.Dr. James Wood walked through those halls with measured steps, his lab coat swaying behind him like the cloak of a monarch who ruled in silence.His face remained calm, professional, reassuring to anyone who saw him, the very image of a kind, brilliant doctor. But beneath his skin, beneath his pulse and breath, something darker flourished.Vengeance had roots now. It was growing."Seventeen years they've lived without guilt,"James thought, passing a group of nurses. "Seventeen years since they stole my life. Seventeen years since they murdered James Wood the first time."Now, he was ready. Not for their death, not yet, but for their descent. Slow, crawling, inevitable. Like sickness.He reached his office, closed the door, and stared at the files spread across his table. Each one had a name. Each one belonged to a killer.Maria Wood. Michael