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Blackened Vein
Author: Enahoro BHB
last update2025-09-09 05:35:22

The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the sprawling highway, its light stretching long shadows over the asphalt. Warren pressed down on the accelerator of his sleek supercar, the engine’s roar cutting through the tranquil evening air like a blade.

The raw power of the machine vibrated through him, a fleeting distraction from the storm brewing in his mind. The open road stretched endlessly before him, a ribbon of possibility and uncertainty leading toward Blackrock—the clandestine chamber where the city’s elite and leaders convened to shape its fate.

Warren had been summoned there as you already know, an invitation that carried weight.

His fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knuckles whitening as his thoughts churned. He hadn’t spoken to Cassandra in over a day, not since their strained encounter at Montego Rest Inn. The memory of their parting lingered like a bruise—awkward silence filling the taxi as they left the inn, neither
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  • What's Wrong With You?

    Warren’s supercar purred to a stop at the Trump estate, its tinted window humming down to reveal his sharp profile. The guards at the gate didn’t dare question him—afterall they all knew he is the Shadow King, whom they whispered in awe and fear. His presence alone commanded deference. He barely acknowledged their nods, his mind clouded, his usual warmth replaced by an unfamiliar chill. The Crown of the Abyss, the ring fused to his finger, pulsed beneath the black glove he now wore to conceal the blackened veins snaking up his hand. He didn’t notice how his indifference unsettled the guards, their eyes lingering on the glove, a silent question in their gazes.The car lot gleamed with seven sleek vehicles: a customized Mercedes Maybach at the center, flanked by three FBI-esque escort vans on either side. Four burly bouncers stood by each van, their dark suits crisp, earpieces crackling with static. Beside the Maybach, Trump’s driver and personal assistant stood, obviously they were w

  • What's Wrong With You?

    Warren’s supercar purred to a stop at the Trump estate, its tinted window humming down to reveal his sharp profile. The guards at the gate didn’t dare question him—afterall they all knew he is the Shadow King, whom they whispered in awe and fear. His presence alone commanded deference. He barely acknowledged their nods, his mind clouded, his usual warmth replaced by an unfamiliar chill. The Crown of the Abyss, the ring fused to his finger, pulsed beneath the black glove he now wore to conceal the blackened veins snaking up his hand. He didn’t notice how his indifference unsettled the guards, their eyes lingering on the glove, a silent question in their gazes.The car lot gleamed with seven sleek vehicles: a customized Mercedes Maybach at the center, flanked by three FBI-esque escort vans on either side. Four burly bouncers stood by each van, their dark suits crisp, earpieces crackling with static. Beside the Maybach, Trump’s driver and personal assistant stood, obviously they were w

  • The Cost Of Power

    The highway was quiet now, save for the distant hum of a passing truck, its headlights briefly illuminating the road before fading into the night. Warren restarted the engine, the low growl of the supercar steadying his resolve. He needed to get to Trump Estate—not just to confront Cassandra about her blocking his number, but to unravel the mystery of what the ring was doing to him. The ring’s dark influence and his chaotic life felt inexplicably intertwined, pulling him toward a truth he wasn’t sure he was ready to face.As he swerved back onto the road, his focus shattered when he clipped a young boy crossing the highway. The boy hadn’t looked well, his movements sluggish, and Warren hadn’t seen him until it was too late. For a fleeting moment, he dismissed the incident, driving on as if nothing had happened—a cold, callous instinct that felt foreign to him. A few meters later, he froze, horror washing over him. He slammed on the brakes again, reversing back to the spot. That wasn’t

  • Blackened Vein

    The sun dipped below the horizon, casting a warm amber glow across the sprawling highway, its light stretching long shadows over the asphalt. Warren pressed down on the accelerator of his sleek supercar, the engine’s roar cutting through the tranquil evening air like a blade. The raw power of the machine vibrated through him, a fleeting distraction from the storm brewing in his mind. The open road stretched endlessly before him, a ribbon of possibility and uncertainty leading toward Blackrock—the clandestine chamber where the city’s elite and leaders convened to shape its fate. Warren had been summoned there as you already know, an invitation that carried weight. His fingers tightened around the leather-wrapped steering wheel, knuckles whitening as his thoughts churned. He hadn’t spoken to Cassandra in over a day, not since their strained encounter at Montego Rest Inn. The memory of their parting lingered like a bruise—awkward silence filling the taxi as they left the inn, neither

  • Unfazed

    The guest room in the Calabrese residence was a quiet sanctuary, its dim light casting long shadows across the polished floor. Warren stood, his body renewed, the Crown of the Abyss glowing faintly on his finger. Its arcane power had worked its magic, knitting his wounds closed, erasing the bruises on his ribs, and sealing the gash on his thigh. The blood-soaked suit was gone, replaced by a crisp black shirt and tailored pants, his presence once again radiating the quiet menace of the Shadow King. His strength and stamina surged, the ring’s energy a river of vitality coursing through him. Yet his mind remained a battlefield, replaying the Zolydyk ambush—Seraphina’s virus, Killua’s pursuit, the butlers’ relentless assault. They’d struck once and failed, but Warren knew they’d come again. Next time, he’d unleash his full power, no restraint, no mercy.Evening loomed, the sky outside bruising purple. Blackrock’s summons hung over him like a guillotine, the monarch’s ultimatum a ticking c

  • Victor's Plan

    Rachel paced her opulent living room, the crystal chandelier above casting fractured light across her furious features. Her phone buzzed with a coded message, its words searing into her mind: the Zolydyk assassins had failed their first attempt on Warren’s life. *Fuck!* The scream tore from her throat, raw and venomous, as she swept a vase off the marble table, its shards scattering like her composure. Fury surged through her veins, a wildfire fed by the audacity of Warren’s survival. The Shadow King, untouchable even by the Zolydyk elite—Seraphina, Killua, their butlers—had slipped through their grasp. Her carefully laid plans were unraveling, and the sting of it was unbearable.She stormed through the mansion, her heels clicking like gunfire on the polished floors, until she reached Victor Crane’s study. Her husband, calm as ever, sat behind his mahogany desk, a glass of whiskey in hand, his eyes scanning a tablet. Rachel didn’t knock—she burst in, the door slamming against the wall

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