The Card

Morning light filtered through the threadbare curtains of Mikhail's apartment, painting stripes across his spartan bedroom. He sat on the edge of his bed, the golden card balanced on his open palm. Sleep had evaded him—his mind too occupied with reconciling the impossible events in Leonov's apartment, the lingering feeling of claws tearing through his flesh, and the inexplicable absence of wounds.

The card caught the light, its surface shifting with symbols that refused to remain static under direct observation. When he looked directly at one, it seemed to blur and change, only becoming clear in his peripheral vision. Like trying to count stars that disappeared when gazed upon.

Mikhail's fingers traced the edge of the card, feeling its impossible thinness. It couldn't be more than a hair's width, yet it possessed a rigidity that defied its dimensions. And there was something else—a subtle warmth, as if the metal retained body heat. His body heat.

A fleeting memory surfaced: his mother, her face indistinct after all these years, placing a card much like this one in a small wooden box. "Never touch this, Misha," she had said, using his childhood nickname. "It's not for little fingers."

Had it been the same? Or was his mind manufacturing connections, seeking patterns where none existed? Twenty-three years had passed since that day. Since the fire that had taken both his parents.

The distant buzz of his phone pulled him from the memory. Mikhail slipped the card into the inner pocket of his suit jacket before retrieving the phone from his nightstand. The screen displayed a name he'd been expecting: Oleg Kuznetsov, his direct supervisor.

He answered with characteristic economy: "Volkov."

"You missed check-in." Oleg's voice was flat, neither accusing nor concerned. "Status report on the Leonov collection."

Mikhail had prepared his explanation carefully, weighing each element for believability against potential verification. A complete fabrication would be dangerous, but the full truth was impossible. He needed a narrative that could withstand scrutiny while omitting the inexplicable.

"Complications arose," he replied, matching Oleg's tone. "Leonov was prepared for collection. Armed and unstable. Physical altercation ensued."

A beat of silence. "And the payment?"

"Not recovered. Leonov escaped during the confrontation."

Another silence, longer this time. Mikhail could almost hear Oleg calculating the probability distributions of various explanations, weighing Mikhail's previously unblemished record against the statistical improbability of a middle-aged bureaucrat overpowering one of the Sokolov's more efficient collectors.

"Your report is inconsistent with your history, Volkov."

"I understand."

"Report to the Meridian at eleven. Viktor wants to address this personally."

The line went dead before Mikhail could acknowledge the directive. He lowered the phone, a slight tension migrating to his shoulders. A personal meeting with Viktor Sokolov was rarely a positive development, even for those in good standing. For someone returning empty-handed from a collection, it typically preceded reassignment to less desirable duties—or worse.

Mikhail moved to his bathroom, examining himself in the mirror. His reflection showed the same face as yesterday—angular features, close-cropped dark hair graying subtly at the temples, eyes the color of slate. Nothing outwardly changed. Yet he felt a subtle but persistent difference, like a slightly altered center of gravity.

His hands moved methodically through his morning routine—shaving with precise strokes, selecting a fresh shirt (slate blue, conservatively cut), securing his tie (double Windsor, perfectly symmetrical). Each action performed as it had been thousands of times before. Routine as armor.

As he buttoned his cuffs, his gaze drifted to the shower stall, and a sudden image flashed in his mind: dark water circling the drain, viscous and unnatural. He blinked, and the impression vanished.

The card pulsed once in his pocket.

---

The Meridian Hotel rose forty-six stories above Saint Volkov City's financial district, its glass facade reflecting clouds and sky like a mirror. To the public, it was merely an exclusive luxury establishment catering to international business travelers and diplomats. To those within certain circles, it was known as the principal headquarters of the Sokolov family's operations.

Mikhail passed through the ornate lobby, nodding to the concierge—a retired enforcer named Maks who had lost three fingers during his service but gained a comfortable position monitoring the hotel's front entrance. The man's eyes tracked Mikhail with professional assessment, noting the time of arrival and Mikhail's physical condition with a practiced glance.

The elevator required a keycard that Mikhail retrieved from his wallet. Unlike his other possessions, this one was genuine—a matte black card with no markings that granted access to floors not listed on the elevator's panel. He swiped it through the reader, then pressed the button for the third floor—a deliberate misdirection. The elevator ascended smoothly but didn't stop until it reached the thirty-eighth floor.

When the doors opened, Mikhail stepped into a reception area appointed with understated opulence—Venetian plaster walls, marble floors, antique Russian furniture mixed with modern pieces. The aesthetic communicated old wealth tempered by contemporary sensibilities.

A woman sat behind a burled walnut desk, her platinum hair pulled into a severe knot. Irina, Viktor's personal assistant for the past decade. She wore a charcoal suit as impeccably tailored as Mikhail's own, a single diamond glinting at her throat.

"Collector Volkov," she acknowledged without looking up from her computer. "You're expected. Second door on the right."

Mikhail inclined his head slightly in acknowledgment and proceeded down the hallway, his footsteps silent on the plush carpet. The second door was unmarked, identical to the others lining the corridor. He knocked once, then entered without waiting for a response, as protocol dictated.

The room beyond was not an office but a small dining room dominated by a round table of dark wood. Tall windows offered a panoramic view of the city, the November sky pressing close against the glass. Viktor Sokolov sat with his back to the door, apparently absorbed in the view.

"Sit, Mikhail Andreevich," Viktor said without turning.

Mikhail took the seat opposite his employer. The table between them held a silver tea service and a folder stamped with the Sokolov family crest—a double-headed eagle clutching a key in one talon and a sword in the other.

Viktor finally turned to face him. The patriarch of the Sokolov family was a man of precise contradictions—his face lined with age yet his posture vigorous, his silver hair impeccably styled, his eyes a pale blue that seemed almost colorless in certain lights. He wore a suit of such subtle quality that it announced wealth only to those trained to recognize it.

"You've had an interesting twenty-four hours," Viktor observed, pouring tea into two porcelain cups. The liquid was the color of amber, fragrant with bergamot and something less identifiable. "Tell me about Leonov."

Mikhail accepted the cup offered to him, the warmth seeping into his fingers. "The collection was compromised. Leonov was prepared for my arrival and initiated a physical confrontation. He escaped during the altercation."

Viktor's expression remained neutral. "A simple bureaucrat overpowered one of my most capable collectors?"

"He was..." Mikhail paused, selecting his words carefully. "Not what he appeared to be."

"Elaborate."

"He displayed unusual physical capabilities. Enhanced strength, speed. Physical alterations inconsistent with standard human anatomy."

Viktor's interest sharpened visibly, his pale eyes focusing with greater intensity. "What kind of alterations?"

"His hands changed. Fingers elongated into claw-like appendages. His skin texture altered. And when I shot him, the wound leaked a substance that wasn't blood. Dark blue, almost black."

Viktor leaned back slightly, the first hint of genuine surprise crossing his features. "You shot him?"

"Three times. Center mass. It slowed him but didn't stop him."

A long silence followed. Viktor sipped his tea, his gaze never leaving Mikhail's face. The tea tasted of oranges and old books, familiar yet impossible to place.

"Did Leonov say anything during this encounter?" Viktor finally asked.

"He said the Sokolovs weren't the only ones with power. That we weren't the only predators in the city." Mikhail paused, then added, "He also claimed 'Leonov' wasn't his real name."

Viktor nodded, as if confirming something long suspected. He opened the folder on the table, revealing a photograph of Leonov—not the family portrait Mikhail had seen in the apartment, but a surveillance image taken on a city street. "Dmitri Leonov. Former mid-level bureaucrat in the Ministry of Finance. Wife deceased from cancer three years ago. One daughter, currently receiving experimental treatment for an autoimmune disorder at Svetlana Memorial Hospital."

Mikhail absorbed the information without comment, though something in Viktor's tone suggested these weren't merely facts being recited.

"Three weeks ago," Viktor continued, "our intelligence division reported that Leonov had been seen meeting with representatives of the Crimson Covenant."

The name triggered a brief flicker of recognition. The Crimson Covenant—one of the rival syndicates operating in the city's eastern districts. Rumors suggested they dealt in experimental pharmaceuticals and engaged in unorthodox recruitment practices, but Mikhail's position rarely brought him into contact with their operations.

"We suspected he might be selling information," Viktor said. "Financial records, access codes. The sort of data a desperate man with ministry connections might acquire. What we didn't anticipate was that they had given him something in return." He closed the folder. "A Contract."

The word hung in the air between them, weighted with unspoken significance. Mikhail had heard the term before, whispered in corridors, referenced obliquely in operational briefings. But always as something that concerned higher levels of the organization, not collectors like himself.

"You know what a Contract is, Mikhail Andreevich?" Viktor asked, though his tone suggested he already knew the answer.

"Not specifically," Mikhail replied honestly. "I understand it's a form of enhancement. Something that gives certain individuals unusual capabilities."

A thin smile crossed Viktor's face. "A serviceable definition, if incomplete." He set down his teacup with deliberate precision. "A Contract is a bond between a human and an entity from beyond our dimension. A pact that allows the human to access powers not native to our reality, in exchange for certain... considerations."

Mikhail maintained his neutral expression despite the absurdity of what he was hearing. Entities from beyond dimensions? It sounded like the plot of a bad science fiction novel. Yet he had seen Leonov transform before his eyes, had felt claws that should not exist tear through his flesh.

"The Sokolov family has used Contracts for generations," Viktor continued. "Carefully, selectively. We understand their value and their dangers. But recently, other organizations have begun acquiring them through less scrupulous channels. The Crimson Covenant, in particular, has been aggressive in their procurement."

"What considerations?" Mikhail asked, focusing on the practical aspects rather than the philosophical implications.

Viktor's eyes narrowed slightly, appreciating the pragmatic question. "It varies. Blood is common—the entity requires regular feeding. Sometimes essence, which manifests as accelerated aging or personality alterations. Occasionally, more specialized demands. The price is never insignificant."

Mikhail took a measured sip of his tea, using the moment to process this information. "Why are you telling me this?" he asked finally.

Viktor leaned forward slightly. "Because you survived an encounter with a Contract user with no training and no preparation. Because you reported it honestly, without embellishment or excuse. And because I suspect there's something you haven't told me."

The card in Mikhail's pocket seemed to grow heavier, as if responding to Viktor's words. A faint pressure, like a heartbeat not his own.

"What happened after Leonov attacked you, Mikhail?" Viktor's voice was soft now, almost gentle. "What aren't you telling me?"

The moment stretched between them, taut with unspoken possibilities. Mikhail could feel the weight of the decision before him—reveal the card, surrender it as protocol demanded, return to the familiar structure of his life. Or keep it secret, step into unknown territory, break the careful order that had defined his existence.

In that suspended moment, a memory surfaced with unexpected clarity: his father, speaking in the hushed tones reserved for dangerous truths. "The Sokolovs take everything, Misha. They allow you to keep only what they don't value."

Before Mikhail could respond, the door to the dining room opened. A young woman entered without knocking—a breach of protocol so significant that Mikhail tensed instinctively. She moved with liquid grace, her burgundy dress contrasting sharply with her pale skin and dark hair, which fell in a straight curtain to her shoulders.

"Father," she said, addressing Viktor without acknowledging Mikhail's presence. "The Machinery Collective has requested an urgent meeting. Their representative is waiting in the blue salon."

Viktor's expression tightened almost imperceptibly. "Anya, we've discussed the importance of proper procedures."

The woman—Anya—finally turned her gaze toward Mikhail, her eyes the same colorless blue as her father's. Something in that gaze suggested she had been aware of his presence all along, had simply chosen not to recognize it.

"Forgive the interruption," she said, her tone making it clear the apology was a formality rather than a sentiment. "I didn't realize you were conducting an interrogation."

Mikhail's face remained impassive, but he noted the word choice—not "meeting" or "discussion," but "interrogation." Deliberate provocation, or insightful observation?

Viktor sighed, a barely perceptible exhalation. "Mikhail Andreevich Volkov, my daughter, Anya Viktorovna. Anya, Collector Volkov was describing an unusual encounter with a Contract user."

At the mention of Contracts, Anya's attention sharpened visibly, her gaze returning to Mikhail with new intensity. "One of ours?" she asked.

"Crimson Covenant," Viktor replied. "Recently acquired, poorly integrated. Mr. Volkov handled the situation admirably, considering his lack of specialized training."

Anya's expression suggested skepticism, though whether directed at Mikhail's capabilities or her father's assessment was unclear. She circled the table slowly, her movements displaying the same liquid quality Mikhail had noted in her entrance.

"And did our collector bring back anything interesting from this encounter?" she asked, stopping directly behind Mikhail's chair. He could feel her presence like a pressure against his back, a subtle disturbance in the air.

The card pulsed once, sharply, in his pocket.

Anya inhaled suddenly, a small, surprised sound. Mikhail didn't turn, but he could sense her leaning closer, as if drawn by something she couldn't see but could somehow perceive.

"Interesting indeed," she murmured, so quietly that Mikhail wasn't certain Viktor could hear.

"We'll continue this discussion later," Viktor said, rising from his chair. "The Machinery Collective doesn't appreciate being kept waiting, even if their timing is inconvenient." He focused on Mikhail. "You're to take three days' leave, Mikhail Andreevich. Rest, recover. We'll speak again when you return to duty."

Mikhail stood, recognizing the dismissal. "Sir."

"Anya will show you out," Viktor added, already moving toward the door. "She's been curious about our field operations. Perhaps you can satisfy some of her questions."

As Viktor departed, the atmosphere in the room shifted subtly. Anya moved to stand by the windows, her reflection ghostly against the backdrop of the city below.

"My father thinks you're hiding something," she said without preamble. "He's rarely wrong about such things."

Mikhail remained silent, neither confirming nor denying.

She turned to face him, her expression thoughtful. "You know what I find most interesting about your encounter, Collector Volkov? Not that you survived against a Contract user. But that you're standing here without a scratch." Her eyes traveled to his chest, precisely where Leonov's claws had torn through shirt and flesh. "Contract injuries don't heal like ordinary wounds. They leave marks. Unless..."

She let the implication hang unfinished between them.

"I should go," Mikhail said, moving toward the door.

"Three days is a long time," Anya remarked, making no move to stop him. "Long enough for curiosity to become action. Long enough for decisions to become irreversible."

Mikhail paused at the door, his hand on the handle. "What do you mean?"

A smile ghosted across her face, there and gone like a passing shadow. "Contracts find those who can use them, Collector Volkov. If you found one, it wasn't by accident." She tilted her head slightly, studying him. "The question isn't whether you're hiding something. It's what you plan to do with it."

Without waiting for a response, she crossed to the door and opened it, a clear dismissal. As Mikhail passed her, she added in a whisper: "The first time is always painful. Remember to breathe through it."

The door closed behind him with a soft click, leaving Mikhail alone in the corridor, the card a silent weight against his chest.

---

The small apartment felt especially empty when Mikhail returned that evening. He moved through familiar routines—checking locks, drawing blinds, preparing a simple meal—but each action felt slightly disconnected, as if he were watching himself perform them rather than experiencing them directly.

Viktor's revelations about Contracts replayed in his mind. Entities from beyond dimensions. Pacts that granted power at significant cost. The Sokolov family's generations of careful use contrasted with the Crimson Covenant's aggressive new acquisitions.

And beneath it all, Anya's parting words: The first time is always painful. Remember to breathe through it.

She had known about the card somehow. Had sensed it without seeing it. Which meant she was familiar with Contracts, perhaps intimately so. Viktor's daughter—what kind of Contract might the Sokolov patriarch have provided for his only child?

Mikhail placed his dinner plate in the sink, the food barely touched. Three days' leave stretched before him—an unusual luxury in his typically regimented schedule. Three days to decide what to do with the card that now felt like a live coal in his pocket, burning with potential and danger.

He moved to his bedroom, retrieving the card and placing it on his nightstand. In the dimming light of evening, the symbols seemed more active, flowing across the golden surface like calligraphy written in water. Beautiful and unsettling.

His father's face appeared in his mind again, more clearly than it had in years. Alexander Volkov had been a quiet man with watchful eyes and steady hands. A man who had worked for the Sokolovs like his son after him, though in what capacity, Mikhail had never learned. His mother, Sofiya, remained even more elusive in his memory—fragments of a gentle voice, the scent of vanilla, and that single clear recollection of her placing a golden card in a wooden box.

Could it have been a Contract? Had his parents been involved with the same powers that Viktor had described?

The fire that had claimed them had been attributed to faulty wiring—an old building, outdated systems, a tragic accident. Mikhail had been eight years old, staying with his grandmother when it happened. He had no reason to question the official explanation.

Until now.

He reached for the card, his fingertips hovering just above its surface. The warmth it emitted had intensified, as if it were anticipating his touch. What would happen if he embraced whatever connection it was offering? What price would it demand?

The first time is always painful.

Mikhail's hand withdrew. Not yet. He needed to understand more before making such a decision. Information was critical before action—a principle that had served him well throughout his career.

He changed into simple sleep clothes and lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling. As his eyes began to close, the card on his nightstand pulsed once, twice, three times in rapid succession.

Like a heartbeat accelerating.

Like anticipation.

Like hunger.

Mikhail dreamed of shadows that moved against the flow of light, of doors opening to places that shouldn't exist, and of his mother's voice whispering words in a language he almost understood. In the dream, he was walking through the corridors of the Meridian Hotel, but the walls breathed and the floor flowed like water beneath his feet.

Anya waited at the end of a long hallway, her pale eyes reflecting light that had no source. "You've already begun," she said, her voice echoing strangely. "The moment you touched it, you made your choice."

He tried to deny it, to explain that he had made no decision, but when he reached for words, he found only shadows filling his mouth.

Anya smiled, and her teeth were points of darkness against the pale oval of her face. "We're going to be friends, Collector Volkov," she said. "Whether either of us wants it or not."

The dream shifted, and Mikhail stood in his childhood home, watching his parents argue in hushed, urgent tones. His father held a golden card identical to the one Mikhail had found. His mother wept silently as she packed a small suitcase.

"They'll find us," his father was saying. "They always do."

"Not if we separate," his mother replied. "Not if we—"

The dream dissolved into fire and darkness.

Mikhail woke with a gasp, his body rigid with tension. The room was filled with dense shadows, deeper than the mere absence of light should create. For an instant, he could have sworn they moved, coiling and stretching like living things before settling back into ordinary darkness.

The card on his nightstand glowed faintly, its symbols pulsing with a subtle rhythm.

Like an invitation.

Like a promise.

Like a threat.