First Blood

The afternoon light slanted through Mikhail's apartment windows, painting his sparse living room in tones of amber and gold. He sat at his kitchen table, a cup of cooling coffee untouched before him, staring at the card he'd arranged precisely in the center of the polished wood surface. For hours, he had examined it from every angle, photographed it with his phone, even attempted to weigh it on his kitchen scale—which had registered nothing, as if the card possessed no mass at all.

Two days of enforced leave had passed in this manner. Observation. Analysis. Hesitation. The methodical approach that had served him well throughout his career now felt insufficient, like trying to measure the ocean with a teaspoon.

The symbols continued their fluid dance across the card's golden surface, more active now than when he'd first acquired it. Sometimes they aligned into patterns that almost made sense, geometric configurations that seemed on the verge of meaning, before dissolving back into inscrutable motion.

Mikhail's phone buzzed with an incoming message. He glanced at the screen, noting a text from Oleg: "Status check. Report condition." Standard procedure for an enforcer on medical leave, though in this case, the concern was likely more about Mikhail's reliability than his wellbeing.

He tapped out a brief response—"Recovering. Will return as scheduled."—then returned his attention to the card.

Viktor's revelations about Contracts had filled gaps in Mikhail's understanding but created new questions. If Contracts were bonds with extradimensional entities, what was the nature of the entity connected to this particular card? What abilities might it grant? And what price would it demand?

Anya's words echoed in his thoughts: "The first time is always painful. Remember to breathe through it."

Mikhail's fingers hovered over the card, close enough to feel the subtle warmth it emanated. Despite years of conditioning to suppress fear, he recognized the emotion now creeping along his spine. Not fear of pain—pain was familiar, quantifiable, temporary. This was fear of transformation, of becoming something he couldn't predict or control.

Yet beneath that fear lay something else—a trickle of anticipation. The possibility of power, of knowledge beyond the carefully prescribed boundaries of his existence. The chance to understand what had happened to his parents.

His phone buzzed again, this time with a call. Mikhail checked the screen—unknown number. He considered ignoring it, but years of operational discipline prevailed.

"Volkov," he answered, his voice neutral.

"You haven't used it yet." Anya Sokolova's voice, unmistakable despite the lack of visual confirmation.

Mikhail's gaze shot to his apartment door, then the windows. Had she somehow been watching him? "How did you get this number?"

A soft laugh, barely audible. "Don't insult both of us with obvious questions, Collector. My father owns your phone, your apartment lease, and the air you breathe. Or did you imagine privacy was among your benefits?"

Mikhail remained silent, neither confirming her assumption about the card nor asking how she knew he hadn't used it.

"The longer you wait, the more painful it will be," she continued. "Like a wound that festers before cleaning. The card has already begun integrating with your essence. It's just waiting for the final connection."

"What do you know about it?" Mikhail asked, his curiosity overriding caution.

"I know it's old. I could feel its age when you sat across from my father." A pause, then: "I know it's rare. Most Contracts are... louder. More insistent. Yours has patience, which suggests sophistication."

"It's not mine," Mikhail said automatically.

"Isn't it?" Another pause. "Check your hand, Collector."

Mikhail looked down at his left hand, the one that had been hovering near the card. A thin line of blood ran across his index finger, a papercut-like wound he hadn't noticed acquiring. A single drop of crimson had formed, trembling on the edge of his fingertip.

"What—" he began, but Anya interrupted.

"The first offering is always blood," she said, her voice taking on an oddly formal quality. "The smallest sacrifice to open the door. What happens next is between you and your Contract." The line went dead.

Mikhail stared at the bead of blood on his finger, then at the card. Had it somehow cut him without his awareness? Or had he unconsciously sought the connection, drawn by the same indefinable pull he'd felt since finding it?

The drop of blood quivered, then fell.

Time seemed to slow as the crimson sphere descended toward the card. Mikhail could see individual reflections in its surface, distorted images of his apartment, his face, windows of blue sky. Then it struck the golden surface.

The blood didn't splash or smear. It sank into the metal as if absorbed, leaving no trace. The symbols on the card froze mid-motion, then began to rearrange themselves with new purpose, flowing toward the center of the card where the blood had disappeared.

For three heartbeats, nothing else happened.

Then pain exploded through Mikhail's body.

It began where the blood had made contact, a burning sensation so intense it felt like ice, shooting up his arm and spreading through his chest. His vision tunneled, darkening at the edges as every nerve ending fired simultaneously. He tried to pull away, but his muscles wouldn't respond, locked in spasm.

*Remember to breathe through it.*

Anya's advice came to him through the haze of agony. Mikhail forced his lungs to expand, drawing in air that tasted of copper and ozone. The pain didn't diminish, but the simple act of breathing gave him something to focus on, a rhythm separate from the chaos consuming his senses.

In. Out. In. Out.

The darkness at the edges of his vision expanded, flowing inward like ink in water until consciousness fled entirely.

---

*He stood in a place that wasn't a place—a vast, empty expanse where directions had no meaning. No up or down, no horizon, only infinite darkness that somehow remained navigable. Though he could see nothing, Mikhail sensed movement around him, currents of something flowing past like a river of shadows.*

*"You are not what was expected," a voice said, though 'voice' was an inadequate description. It was more like a vibration that translated itself into meaning within Mikhail's mind.*

*"What was expected?" he asked, finding he could speak despite the impossibility of sound in this non-place.*

*"A vessel with less... coherence. Most who find us are already broken in some way. Desperate. You are... orderly. Structured."*

*Mikhail tried to locate the source of the communication, but it seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. "What are you?"*

*A sensation like amusement rippled through the darkness. "A crude question. We are potential given form. Possibility made substance. You might call us Void, though that implies emptiness, which is incorrect. We are not absence. We are the space between presence."*

*None of this made sense to Mikhail, yet somehow he understood on a level deeper than conscious thought. "Why me?"*

*"You called. Your blood sang to us across the divide."*

*"I didn't call anything," Mikhail objected.*

*"Not today. Before. Long ago. Blood remembers what mind forgets."*

*Images flashed through the darkness—his mother placing the card in its wooden box, her fingers marked with similar thin cuts. His father arguing, face tense with worry. The fire that had claimed them both, flames that burned with unnatural darkness at their cores.*

*"My parents," Mikhail whispered. "They had a connection to you."*

*"The female. She carried us for many cycles before releasing the bond. A rare choice. Usually, only death separates."*

*"And what do you want from me?" Mikhail asked, though he suspected he already knew the answer.*

*"Partnership. Exchange. We offer movement through the spaces between. You offer blood and purpose."*

*"If I refuse?"*

*The darkness pulsed once, sharply. "Refusal is impossible now. The first blood has been given. The door is open. We can discuss terms, but the connection cannot be severed except through your death."*

*Mikhail felt a cold certainty settle over him. No choice, then. Only negotiation.*

*"What are your terms?" he asked.*

*The darkness shifted, condensing before him into a roughly humanoid shape, though details remained fluid and indistinct. "We require blood—regular sustenance to maintain the bond. We require acknowledgment—use of the abilities we grant strengthens the connection. In exchange, you may move through shadows as if they were doors, passing instantly from one to another within your line of sight."*

*A simple power, relatively speaking. Not the godlike abilities of legend, but practical. Useful. Especially in Mikhail's line of work.*

*"There must be limitations," he said.*

*"Perception defines range. If you cannot see the destination shadow, you cannot transit to it. Sunlight weakens connection—full daylight reduces range significantly. And we cannot transport what you cannot physically carry."*

*"And the cost? How much blood?"*

*"A few drops daily maintains minimal connection. More significant use requires greater payment. The exchange is proportional."*

*Mikhail considered this. The terms seemed straightforward, the limitations reasonable. Too reasonable, perhaps. "What aren't you telling me?"*

*The shadow-figure rippled, and again came that sensation of amusement. "Caution. Good. The bond strengthens with use. As it strengthens, more of us exists within you. As more of us exists within you, your perception... adapts."*

*"Adapts how?"*

*"You begin to see as we see. The spaces between become visible. The shadows reveal their depths. Most find this... disorienting. Some find it maddening."*

*"My mother carried your bond for years," Mikhail pointed out. "She seemed sane enough in my memories."*

*"She was exceptional. Her mind had flexibility uncommon in your kind. Whether you have inherited this quality remains to be discovered."*

*A test, then. Not just of ability, but of mental resilience. Mikhail weighed the risks against potential benefits. Power. Knowledge. Perhaps answers about his parents' fate.*

*"I accept your terms," he said finally.*

*The shadow-figure inclined what might have been a head. "Then let us begin."*

*It reached out with an appendage that wasn't quite an arm, ending in something that wasn't quite a hand. The touch against Mikhail's chest felt like ice and electricity combined, a shock that sent him reeling backward through the darkness.*

---

Mikhail gasped awake on his kitchen floor, his body curled into a fetal position. Every muscle ached as if he'd run a marathon, and his mouth tasted of metal. Slowly, painfully, he uncurled and sat up, bracing himself against the table leg.

The card was gone.

Panic flashed through him as he scanned the floor, thinking it might have fallen. Nothing. He checked the table surface, his pockets, even his sleeves, increasingly frantic until a strange sensation made him pause.

His left wrist itched. Not the surface itch of a mosquito bite or allergic reaction, but a deeper sensation, as if something moved beneath the skin. Mikhail pushed back his sleeve, revealing the pale underside of his wrist.

As he watched, golden symbols appeared on his skin, rising to the surface like ink spreading through paper from beneath. They formed a narrow band around his wrist, the same shifting patterns that had decorated the card, now inscribed directly into his flesh. They glowed faintly for several seconds, then faded until they were barely visible—a subtle discoloration that might be mistaken for an unusual birthmark or faded tattoo.

The Contract was now part of him. Literally.

Mikhail staggered to his feet, his balance uncertain. The apartment around him looked the same, yet somehow different. The shadows in the corners seemed deeper, more substantial. When he turned his head quickly, he caught movement at the edges of his vision, as if the darkness briefly flowed like liquid before settling back into stillness.

He made his way to the bathroom, splashing cold water on his face. The mirror revealed a pallid reflection, his skin waxy and his eyes bloodshot. But it was still recognizably him—no dramatic transformation, no visible corruption. Just Mikhail Volkov, perhaps looking like he was recovering from a particularly nasty flu.

What now? He needed to test the ability, to verify that the exchange had been genuine. But caution suggested starting small.

Mikhail returned to the living room, noting how the afternoon had progressed toward evening, the shadows lengthening as the sun descended. He stood in the center of the room, observing how his own shadow stretched across the floor toward the darkened hallway leading to his bedroom.

Shadow to shadow. That was the ability—to move through darkness as if it were a doorway.

He focused on his shadow, then on the deeper darkness of the hallway. How to activate the power? The Contract entity hadn't specified. Instinct suggested it might respond to intent, to concentrated desire.

Mikhail closed his eyes, visualizing the short journey—from where he stood to the hallway, a distance of perhaps fifteen feet. He imagined stepping into his own shadow and emerging from the darkness beyond.

Nothing happened.

He tried again, concentrating harder, willing the connection to open. Still nothing.

Frustration bubbled up, an unfamiliar emotion for someone accustomed to emotional discipline. Had he hallucinated the entire experience? Was this some elaborate trick, perhaps orchestrated by the Sokolovs to test his loyalty or sanity?

No. The symbols on his wrist were real, visible evidence of the Contract's existence. The power must be real as well. He was simply missing something.

Blood. The entity had mentioned blood as the currency of exchange. Perhaps activation required payment.

Mikhail went to the kitchen, retrieving a small paring knife. He hesitated only briefly before drawing the blade across his thumb, creating a shallow cut that welled with crimson. The pain was sharp but clarifying, anchoring him in physical sensation.

As the blood beaded on his skin, the symbols around his wrist pulsed once, brightening momentarily. He felt a subtle shift, a connection opening like a door unlocking.

Mikhail returned to the living room, the cut still bleeding freely. Again he focused on his shadow and the darkness of the hallway, but this time he felt something new—a sensation of the spaces between, as if reality had seams he could now perceive.

He concentrated on that sensation, willing himself to step through those seams.

The world... folded.

One moment Mikhail stood in the center of his living room; the next, he was in the darkened hallway. No sense of movement, no rush of air or disorientation. Simply here, then there.

He stumbled slightly, unprepared for the sudden transition. The cut on his thumb throbbed, and when he looked down, he saw the blood had stopped flowing, the wound already beginning to close at an accelerated rate.

Payment received.

Exhilaration rushed through him, a feeling so foreign that it took Mikhail a moment to identify it. He had done it. The Contract was real, the power genuine. He turned back toward the living room, noting how the shadows there seemed to pulse with subtle invitation, as if aware of his newfound ability to traverse them.

Control reasserted itself quickly. One successful test didn't constitute mastery. He needed to understand the parameters, the limitations, the exact cost of each use. Methodical exploration would provide more valuable data than reckless experimentation.

Before he could begin further testing, a knock at his apartment door froze him in place.

Three sharp raps. Authoritative. Professional.

Mikhail glanced at the clock on his microwave. 7:18 PM. No scheduled maintenance for the building, no expected deliveries. He wasn't due to report back to the Sokolovs for another day.

Another set of knocks, identical to the first.

Moving silently to the door, Mikhail checked the peephole. The distorted fish-eye view revealed a familiar face—Dmitri Kozlov, another enforcer for the Sokolovs, and Mikhail's occasional rival. Dmitri was younger by several years, with close-cropped blond hair and a perpetual expression of barely contained aggression. Unlike Mikhail's strategic precision, Dmitri favored intimidation and brute force.

Mikhail considered ignoring the visit, but that would only delay whatever confrontation Dmitri intended. Better to face it directly, controlled.

He opened the door, positioning himself to block the entrance. "Kozlov."

Dmitri smiled, the expression never reaching his pale eyes. "Volkov. You look like shit."

"Medical leave," Mikhail replied evenly. "Did Oleg send you to check on me?"

"Just being neighborly. Heard you had some trouble with a simple collection." Dmitri's gaze swept past Mikhail, scanning what he could see of the apartment. "Must have been embarrassing. You with your perfect record."

The implied criticism was obvious, as was Dmitri's satisfaction at Mikhail's apparent failure. The younger enforcer had always resented Mikhail's efficiency and Viktor's apparent favoritism.

"Did you need something specific?" Mikhail asked, keeping his tone neutral.

Dmitri's smile tightened. "Just curious about Leonov. Word is, he was more than he appeared to be."

The casual mention of Contracts in an unsecured location would have been concerning, if not for the fact that Dmitri clearly didn't understand what he was talking about. He'd heard fragments, enough to be dangerous but not enough to be useful.

"If you want details, speak to Oleg," Mikhail said. "I've filed my report."

"Sure, sure." Dmitri leaned against the doorframe, deliberately invading Mikhail's personal space. "But off the record—what happened? Did the little bureaucrat get the drop on you? Or did you just decide to let him walk because he had a sob story about his sick kid?"

The provocation was transparent, designed to elicit an emotional response. A week ago, Mikhail would have dismissed it easily, the words sliding off his disciplined exterior without penetration.

But something had changed. The Contract within him stirred at Dmitri's proximity, a subtle pressure behind his eyes. The shadows in the hallway seemed to deepen, and for an instant, Mikhail could swear he saw darkness flowing around Dmitri's feet like water around a stone.

"I'll ask again," Mikhail said, his voice lower than before. "Did you need something specific?"

Something in his tone or expression must have communicated the shift, because Dmitri straightened, instinctively backing up a half-step. Confusion flickered across his face, quickly replaced by an attempt to reassert dominance.

"Viktor's asking questions about you, Volkov. About your reliability. About whether you're still an asset or becoming a liability. Thought you'd want to know, since you're always so... careful about your position." He smirked. "Be a shame if one bad job ruined such a pristine record."

The shadows pulsed again, responding to Mikhail's carefully controlled anger. He could feel the Contract entity stirring within him, curious about this new emotion, testing the boundaries of their connection.

"Your concern is noted," Mikhail said, each word measured and precise. "Now, unless there's official business, I need to rest. Doctor's orders."

Dmitri studied him for a long moment, as if trying to solve a puzzle just beyond his comprehension. Finally, he shrugged. "Get some rest, then. You'll need it when you come back. Lots of changes happening. New systems being implemented." He tapped his temple. "Need to stay sharp."

With that cryptic warning, he turned and walked toward the elevator, his posture deliberately casual.

Mikhail closed the door, engaging all three locks with methodical precision. Dmitri's visit had been more than simple rivalry. It had been reconnaissance, though whether self-directed or on orders from someone else remained unclear.

The Contract connection hummed beneath his skin, more active now after the confrontation. The shadows in his apartment seemed to watch him with newfound interest, as if awakened by the subtle surge of emotion Dmitri had provoked.

Mikhail looked down at his wrist, where the faint golden symbols still marked his skin. What had he become? Not just a Contract user, but something else—a vessel for an entity from beyond normal reality, gradually changing in ways he couldn't yet fully comprehend.

The methodical collector was still there, the disciplined enforcer, the man who valued order and precision. But now there was something else sharing that identity, flowing through the spaces between his thoughts like shadows between objects.

He moved to the window, looking out at the city as evening descended. Saint Volkov spread below, lights coming on in countless windows as darkness gathered. Millions of people going about their lives, unaware of the hidden currents flowing beneath the surface of their reality.

Mikhail had always been part of those currents, one of the hidden mechanisms maintaining the Sokolovs' control. Now he had become something else, something neither fully human nor fully other. The realization should have disturbed him more than it did.

Instead, he felt a strange sense of anticipation, of possibilities opening before him like doors in the darkness.

Tomorrow he would return to the Sokolovs, to his duties as a collector. But he would return changed, carrying shadows within his veins and secrets beneath his skin. What that would mean for his future—for his loyalty to the organization that had shaped his entire adult life—remained to be seen.

The Contract pulsed once within him, as if in agreement.

Neither of them was what had been expected. Perhaps that would prove to be their strength.