Story cover for 'Une nuk jam prostitut!' by AnaAna691
'Une nuk jam prostitut!'
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  • WpHistory
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  • WpView
    Reads 311
  • WpVote
    Votes 20
  • WpPart
    Parts 2
  • WpHistory
    Time 8m
Complete, First published Jan 27, 2023
Mature
'Gjeja e vetme qe ishte e imja , gjeja e vetme e bukur ne kete bote ,dhe ai nk ka per tme gjetur kurre....

-Sa e ke?
U tremba nga burri misterioz , qe ishte brenda nje makine luksoze.
- Me fal? Nuk te kuptova..-pash veten pastaj e vshur me ate veshjen e clubit
Ngrita duart,'U-Une nuk jam prostitute.'
 
E ndjeva erresiren ne syte e tij duke me analizuar mua dhe e kuptova situaten. Fillova te zmbrapshesha dhe frika me kaploi trupin .

'Hip ne makine.' -Ulerima e tij me friksoi , edhe fillova te vrapoja ...
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Pyro

13 parts Ongoing Mature

Let me tell you my story, the one about how I died. Don't worry, though. I came back. They say when someone shares their story, they're sharing their burden. Seeking someone to help carry the weight that bends their shoulders, hoping their troubles will float away like helium balloons into the endless sky. Your silence becomes their sanctuary, a vacuum they fill with dust-covered memories. If you speak, do it gently - a nod, a smile, the ghost of a touch on their shoulder. But my story? It's different. It carved its path because trust becomes a luxury I could no longer afford. How could it not, when the one person who swore to never betray me did exactly that? The one who promised never to hurt me, broke me. The one who vowed to stay, walked away. So tell me, why trust anyone else when the person I trusted the most killed me in every way but physical? Until they managed that too. They say the most dangerous predators are the ones who look like prey. I learned this truth through split knuckles and shattered promises, through blood on my tongue and threats whispered against skin. Through playing weak while gathering my strength in darkness. Now I watch him, this self-proclaimed hunter in his own game. He doesn't see he's just another piece being moved across someone else's board. The mafia's golden prince, they whisper. If only they knew what lurks beneath that polished veneer. What dances behind those eyes that mirror the shadows I know so well. But shadows? They're born from fire. And somewhere out there, someone's striking matches, leaving black roses on cooling ashes, drawing closer with every corpse that falls. They call him Pyro. And when that name drops in a room. Well, let's just say I'm not the only one with secrets worth killing for. Some demons wear designer suits. Some victims wear crowns. And some fires are worth burning for. Welcome to the game. Trust no one. Not even me.