Novels by Cypborg

The room was dark, the only sound was the faint hum of the air conditioner, and Sultan could still feel his pulse racing from the nightmare. He muttered under his breath, "Damn it…"Sultan shifted in bed, the sheets rustling as he pushed himself up to sit at the edge. His hand ran through his hair, now damp with sweat. He could still feel the weight of the dream, the shadows of the four figures lingering in his mind. Their accusations, the way they chased him, it all felt too real. It was as if they were trying to pull him back into something he desperately wanted to escape from."Forgotten... forsaken… what the hell does it even mean?" He muttered, rubbing his face with his palms. The clock on the nightstand showed 6:15 AM. He hadn’t planned on waking up this early, but after that dream, there was no chance of going back to sleep. He got up, his feet making soft thuds on the carpet as he moved to the window. Pulling the curtains apart, he was met with the dull light of dawn. The

Darkness clung to Sultan like a thick fog as he found himself standing in the middle of an unfamiliar place. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day—the sky was a dull, ashen gray, and the air was still, oppressive, as if the world itself were holding its breath. Around him, shadows loomed, shifting and twisting, never settling into anything recognizable.Sultan’s breath quickened, his heart pounding in his chest. He wasn’t sure how he had ended up here or why, but something about this place gnawed at the edges of his mind, a whisper of fear that he couldn’t quite shake. The ground beneath his feet was cold, hard, and unyielding, and every step he took seemed to echo into the void.He started walking, not sure where he was going, but driven by an urgent need to move. His footsteps were the only sound, the silence around him thick and stifling. As he moved forward, the shadows seemed to part slightly, revealing a narrow path ahead. It wound through what appeared to be an endless exp

The road to a certain destination was long and winding, flanked by dense forests that seemed to close in around the narrow path. The man walked with a deliberate pace, his steps heavy with the weight of memories that he couldn’t shake. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the only sound was the steady crunch of leaves underfoot.As the road twisted and turned, the destination finally came into view, nestled at the end of the valley. "Armstrong's Den," the man blurted out.The house stood like a forgotten sentinel, its once-grand façade now weathered by time. Vines clung to the walls, and the windows, some broken, others covered in dust, gazed out like the hollow eyes of a weary sentinel. The man hesitated at the edge of the clearing, his gaze fixed on the house that seemed to hold all the answers he had been seeking.Without a word, he moved forward, crossing the worn cobblestone path that led to the front door. The creaking of the floorboards under his feet

(SOMEWHERE IN THE WOODS)..It was a typical late afternoon in the sleepy little town of Thornwood, where the world seemed to move just a touch slower. The summer sun was beginning its descent, casting long, lazy shadows across the winding dirt road that led out of town and into the thick, endless stretch of woods that bordered the northern edge of the county. The locals called it the “Dark Forest,” though it had no official name. It was a place that everyone knew of but few dared to explore.Today, the forest was quiet, as it usually was, save for the occasional rustle of leaves or the distant cry of a bird. The air was thick with the scent of pine and earth, and the light filtered through the dense canopy above, painting the forest floor in a patchwork of gold and shadow.As the day edged closer to dusk, the quiet was broken by the crunch of gravel underfoot. A man, dressed in a worn leather jacket and faded jeans, walked slowly down the old road that cut through the forest. His

The room, still warm with the remnants of their earlier conversation, felt charged with an undercurrent of something unspoken, something that Sultan had already perceived.For Sultan was no ordinary man. Known to many as the fool—a title that masked the depth of his true abilities—he had honed his skills to an art. And today, as Mr. Dickson sat across from him, discussing marriage and the future of the Watson family, Sultan’s mind was elsewhere, reaching into the recesses of Dickson's thoughts, peeling back the layers of his intentions.In an instant, Sultan saw it clearly: Mr. Dickson's visit had little to do with genuine concern for the Watsons or their company's future. It was about positioning. The recent collaborations with Lin Enterprise and Sullivan, the President's son, had solidified the Watsons’ place on the path to immense power and influence. Mr. Dickson, ever the opportunist, was angling for a deeper slice of that pie—one that could only be secured through family ties. H

The morning sun poured gently through the tall windows of the Watson estate, casting a warm glow over the meticulously set dining table. The table was adorned with fine china, polished silverware, and an array of breakfast dishes—freshly baked bread, fruits, eggs, and other delights, arranged with care by the household staff. Mr. and Mrs. Watson were already seated, exchanging quiet words as they waited for their sons and their guest to join them."Everything looks perfect," Mrs. Watson remarked, her eyes scanning the table with approval."It certainly does," Mr. Watson agreed, a hint of pride in his voice. "But it’s not the food that matters today. It’s eating with our sons."As they spoke, one of the bodyguards entered the room, standing tall by the door. "Mr. Dickson has arrived," he announced."Thank you. Please show him in," Mr. Watson instructed.A moment later, Mr. Dickson entered the dining room, his presence as imposing as ever. Dressed in a tailored suit, he moved with the

The heavy oak doors to the Wisehearts Industries conference room swung open, and Clarke Wiseheart strode in. The air in the room shifted with his entrance. His tailored suit and calm demeanor were at great opposition with the tension already simmering among the board members. Around the long table, senior executives and advisors exchanged curious, skeptical glances. The whispers began almost immediately.“Who is this?” came the gruff voice of Samuel Vance, one of the longest-serving board members. His gaze lingered on Clarke with open disdain. “Where’s Duke?”“Or Clifford,” Margot Reynolds added, her tone sharp. “Someone we actually know.”Clarke ignored their murmurs and walked to the head of the table, the exact spot his father had occupied for decades. Resting his hands on the polished wood, he addressed the room with the steadiness of a man who had long prepared for this moment. This was his time.“I’m Clarke Wiseheart,” he said, his voice cutting through the noise like a bla

Standing there was Duke.The air around him seemed to electrify the space, silencing even the loudest whispers. Tall, with an imposing presence, Duke was the kind of man who could command a room with a glance. His dark, piercing eyes locked onto Gibson with a calm intensity that sent a chill down the spines of everyone present. He wasn’t dressed like the elite crowd surrounding him; his black shirt and dark slacks were simple, yet somehow he outclassed them all.Winifred froze, her mind reeled. She hadn’t expected him. Not here, not now.The crowd shifted uneasily, unsure of what was about to unfold.“Who is that?” one reporter whispered.“Wait... isn’t that Duke Harlan? The industrialist?” another murmured, eyes wide.Gibson’s smirk faltered for just a second, but he recovered quickly. “Well, this is a surprise,” he said, though his voice betrayed a hint of unease. “Didn’t think someone like you would care about a little scandal.”Duke didn’t respond immediately. Instead, he walked

The morning sun glinted off Winifred’s car as she pulled up to her studio. The parking lot felt heavier today, as if even the building sensed the growing storm within its walls. She straightened her blazer, took a deep breath, and walked in with her usual commanding presence. Though her mind was already preoccupied.Her manager, Ethan, was waiting for her near the reception area with a expression somber. His usual smile was nowhere to be found, replaced by a worried frown.“Winifred,” he called out, walking toward her briskly. “We need to talk. It’s urgent.”Winifred tilted her head slightly, trying to mask the unease creeping into her chest. “What is it now? Another issue with the scripts?"Ethan shook his head. “No, it’s… it’s Gibson.”Her steps faltered. That name always carried weight. Was it because of his money? Or was it because of how she hurt him? Gibson was her ex, her rich boyfriend who was going to propose to her.She swallowed hard and composed herself quickly. “What abo

The faint light of the morning sun crept into the room, illuminating Clarke’s face as he stirred. His phone buzzed on the nightstand and the soft vibration broke the silence. Groaning, he reached out blindly. His hand fumbled before grabbing it.He squinted at the screen. 6:12 AM. A text from Duke:"Mr. Clarke, urgent. Call me when you wake."Clarke sighed, already feeling the tension creeping back into his muscles. He glanced at where Winifred sat last night and she wasn't there, neither was she in the room. For a moment, he considered ignoring the message. But he knew Duke wouldn’t disturb him without good reason.Sliding out of bed carefully to avoid making any noise, he padded to the window side. His bare feet was sure silent against the cool floor. Once he was far enough from the bedroom door, he tapped Duke’s number.It rang twice before Duke’s voice came through, calm but serious. “Mr. Clarke, we have a problem.”“What now?” Clarke asked, keeping his voice low.“It’s about you

Clarke stepped into the quiet house just as the faint glow of dawn began peeking over the horizon. It was 3 a.m., and the stillness of the house was broken only by the soft shuffle of his footsteps.He quietly pushed open the door to the bedroom, expecting his wife to be asleep, but Winifred was sitting upright with glasses perched on her nose and surrounded by papers.She looked up as he entered. Her sharp eyes narrowed. “Why are you just coming back now?” she asked, her tone biting. “It took you long enough. And why bother coming back at dawn? Why not wait until morning?”Clarke paused, his hand lingering on the doorframe. Before he could answer, she continued, whining. “Should I also be your mother added to being your wife? Am I supposed to be teaching you about security? You’re a grown man, but you act like a baby. Do I have to worry about you every time you step out?”Clarke smiled faintly. Her words were more teasing than truly angry. He didn’t respond right away, instead shrugg

Clarke dragged Duke by the arm, pulling him away from the front door and closer to the edge of the porch, where their conversation wouldn't disturb the quiet house. "Why did you come here unannounced?" Clarke demanded.Duke straightened his jacket, brushing off Clarke’s hand like the whole ordeal amused him. “The Grandmaster fainted,” Duke replied. “And, he’s thinking about you, worried about you. That’s why I’m here.”Clarke paused, his breath hitching slightly. He ran a hand through his hair, concerned. Yes, his father had done a lot to him. Hurt him in ways that left scars both visible and invisible. But fainting? The man was old, and despite everything, Clarke didn’t wish him ill.Duke noticed the hesitation in Clarke’s stance and pressed further. “Look, I get it. Grandmaster isn’t exactly your favorite person, but he’s still your father.”Clarke’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, he wrestled with his thoughts. “Fine,” he said finally, his voice clipped. “Prepare one of the cho