The Collector

The night air carried the bitter scent of coming snow as Mikhail Volkov waited in the shadow of a crumbling apartment complex. His breath formed delicate clouds that dissipated into the darkness, the only sign of life from his otherwise motionless form. Three hours he'd stood there, watching the fourth-floor window, counting the shadows that passed behind the thin curtains.

Patience was a currency in his line of work. One that paid better dividends than recklessness.

A final silhouette crossed the window, and the lights dimmed. Mikhail checked his watch—2:17 AM. Right on schedule. He rolled his shoulders beneath his charcoal overcoat, the fabric rustling against the shoulder holster hidden beneath. The weight of the Makarov pistol was familiar, comforting even, though he hadn't needed to fire it in months.

*The best collections require no blood*, Viktor always said. *But always be prepared to spill it.*

Mikhail moved across the street with practiced efficiency, each step calculated to make minimal sound against the icy pavement. The front door's lock surrendered to his picks in under twenty seconds. The lobby reeked of cabbage and cigarettes, the universal perfume of these forgotten Soviet-era buildings. He bypassed the elevator—too noisy, too unreliable—and took the stairs two at a time.

Apartment 412. Pyotr Lebedev. Three months behind on payments to the Sokolov Family. A debt that had earned him a visit from the Collector.

Mikhail didn't hate Lebedev. He didn't feel anything toward the man. Lebedev was simply an equation that needed balancing, a task to complete with the same emotional investment one might give to washing dishes or sweeping floors.

He pressed his ear against the door, detecting the soft drone of a television and nothing more. A single occupant, likely dozing on the couch—the timing was perfect. The lock was better than the building's main entrance, but still yielded within a minute. Mikhail eased the door open, its hinges mercifully silent.

The small apartment was bathed in the flickering blue glow of a television. Lebedev, a balding man in his fifties with the soft physique of a lifetime bureaucrat, lay sprawled on a threadbare couch. An empty vodka bottle on the coffee table explained his deep slumber.

Mikhail closed the door behind him with a deliberate click.

Lebedev's eyes snapped open, bloodshot and disoriented. When they focused on Mikhail's tall, lean silhouette, they widened with primal fear.

"No noise," Mikhail said softly, his voice carrying the calm certainty of someone who never needed to make threats twice. "You know why I'm here."

Lebedev scrambled to a sitting position, his hands raised in panicked submission. "Please, I need more time. Just one more week—"

"Three months is already generous by the Family's standards." Mikhail remained by the door, hands visible at his sides, his posture relaxed. Experience had taught him that his calm was often more terrifying than aggression. "Mr. Sokolov sent me personally. That means this is your final opportunity."

"I don't have it all," Lebedev's voice cracked. "I can give you half now. The rest—"

"The full amount." Mikhail's gray eyes remained fixed on Lebedev, noting every micro-expression, every nervous twitch. "Or appropriate compensation."

Lebedev's shoulders slumped. "My pension comes tomorrow. I could sign it over—"

"Insufficient." Mikhail took one step forward. Just one. Lebedev recoiled as if struck. "I understand you recently acquired some items of interest. Collector's items. Mr. Sokolov is an aficionado of rare artifacts."

The color drained from Lebedev's face. "How did you—? Those are family heirlooms."

"Then they should cover your family's debts." Mikhail tilted his head slightly. "Where are they?"

Lebedev's eyes darted to the hallway, a tell so obvious it bordered on comedic. "I have nothing like that here."

Mikhail sighed, a soft exhalation of disappointment. He moved toward Lebedev with fluid grace, no wasted motion as he reached into his coat and withdrew not his pistol but a small black tablet. He tapped the screen, bringing up images of financial transactions.

"Two months ago, you sold your car. Last month, your watch. Yet the money vanished." He turned the screen to show Lebedev. "But there were purchases from an antiquities dealer in Arbat. Rather significant purchases for a man who can't pay his debts."

Lebedev's breathing quickened. "Those were investments. To help pay—"

"Where are they?" Mikhail repeated, his voice dropping an octave.

Something shifted in Lebedev's expression—desperation crystallizing into defiance. His hand snaked beneath a couch cushion.

Mikhail reacted instantly, crossing the distance between them before Lebedev could fully withdraw his hand. He caught the older man's wrist in an iron grip, applying precise pressure to the nerve cluster that sent lancing pain up Lebedev's arm. A small revolver clattered to the floor.

"Disappointing," Mikhail murmured, twisting Lebedev's arm at an unnatural angle that forced a yelp of pain. "Now we need to have a different conversation."

"Please," Lebedev gasped, "you don't understand what you're looking for. Those things—they're dangerous."

Mikhail applied slightly more pressure, feeling the delicate bones of Lebedev's wrist grind together. "The items. Now."

"Bedroom," Lebedev wheezed. "Hidden compartment behind the wardrobe. The key is in my desk drawer."

Mikhail released him with a gentle push that nonetheless sent Lebedev sprawling back onto the couch. "Stay here. Movement would be unwise."

The bedroom was spartan—a single bed with military corners, a wardrobe that had seen better days decades ago, and a small desk covered in papers. Mikhail found the key exactly where Lebedev had indicated. The wardrobe proved heavy but slid aside with determined effort, revealing a small wall safe.

Standard issue, nothing special. The key turned with a satisfying click.

Inside lay several velvet pouches and a wooden box with intricate carvings. Mikhail opened one pouch, finding an old coin that seemed to shimmer strangely in the dim light. The box contained various small artifacts—a bronze figurine, an ornate dagger with strange inscriptions, and several parchments with writing in a language Mikhail didn't recognize.

But what caught his eye was a single card, approximately the size of a playing card but thicker, made of some material that didn't feel quite like paper or metal. One side bore intricate geometric patterns that seemed to shift subtly when not directly observed. The other featured a stark black symbol resembling a stylized doorway surrounded by arcane lettering.

Something about it called to him. A subtle vibration that he felt more than heard, a resonance that made the hairs on his arms stand on end.

Mikhail carefully placed all items into his satchel, except for the card, which he found himself slipping into his inner coat pocket almost without conscious thought. *I'll examine it more closely later*, he told himself, *before turning everything over to Viktor*.

When he returned to the living room, Lebedev was sitting exactly where Mikhail had left him, but something had changed. The fear in his eyes had been replaced by a strange resignation, almost pity.

"You took it, didn't you?" Lebedev asked softly. "I can see it in your eyes. It called to you."

Mikhail's expression remained impassive. "Your debt is settled. The Sokolov Family considers this matter closed."

"It won't be closed," Lebedev whispered. "It's just beginning for you. I thought I could control it, use it. They always find the right hosts in the end."

Mikhail gathered the small revolver from the floor, emptying its chambers and placing it on the coffee table. "Seek help, Mr. Lebedev. Your paranoia is concerning."

As Mikhail turned to leave, Lebedev called after him: "When it starts—when you see the shadows move—remember that you chose this!"

The night air felt colder as Mikhail left the building, the weight of the card in his pocket somehow heavier than the entire satchel of artifacts. Snow had begun to fall in large, lazy flakes that melted against the warmth of his face. He should call in, report the successful collection, arrange to deliver the items to Viktor.

Instead, he walked silently through the deserted streets, his mind returning to the card, to its strange symbol and the inexplicable draw he felt toward it. For the first time in years, Mikhail Volkov, the Sokolov Family's most reliable collector, diverted from protocol.

*Just until morning*, he told himself. *I'll turn everything in after I've examined them properly.*

As he walked through a particularly dark alley, he could have sworn that, for just a moment, his shadow moved independently of his own motion, stretching toward a deeper darkness ahead.

Mikhail quickened his pace, blaming the vodka-scented air of Lebedev's apartment for playing tricks on his mind. Yet his hand instinctively moved to his pocket, fingers brushing against the strange card that pulsed with subtle warmth against his chest.

Behind him, unseen, the shadows stirred.