First Blood

The Sokolov Family compound occupied an entire city block in Moscow's exclusive Patriarch's Ponds district. From the street, it appeared to be nothing more than an elegant pre-revolutionary mansion with a high stone wall, but Mikhail knew better. Beneath the manicured gardens and historic façade lay three subterranean levels where the Family's true business took place.

Mikhail approached the wrought iron gates, the weight of Lebedev's collection heavy in his satchel, the new Contract mark a phantom pressure against his wrist. Snow had begun falling again, fat flakes landing on his shoulders and melting into the dark fabric of his coat.

The guard at the gate—Alexei, a hulking man with a prizefighter's broken nose—acknowledged Mikhail with a slight nod. No words passed between them as Alexei pressed a concealed button, and the gate slid open with well-oiled precision.

Mikhail entered the courtyard where a marble fountain stood frozen in winter's grip, its waters replaced by intricate ice formations. He followed the stone path to the main entrance, every step measured, his senses heightened by the Contract's influence. The shadows between hedges and statues pulled at his awareness, offering pathways, connections to the void-space he'd briefly inhabited during his first jump.

He suppressed the urge to reach for them, focusing instead on the immediate challenge: reporting to Viktor without revealing his newfound abilities.

The heavy oak doors opened before he could knock, revealing Dmitri Kozlov's broad-shouldered silhouette. At thirty-two, just two years older than Mikhail, Dmitri had already secured his position as Viktor's right hand. His sandy hair was cropped military-short, his green eyes perpetually evaluating, calculating—a predator's gaze.

"You're late," Dmitri said, his voice deceptively casual. "The Patriarch doesn't appreciate having his schedule disrupted."

Mikhail met his gaze evenly. "Security protocols exist for a reason. I was followed for three blocks after the collection. Standard procedure is to ensure a clean approach."

"And was your approach clean?" Dmitri's eyes flicked to the satchel, then back to Mikhail's face, lingering momentarily on his eyes. Had he noticed the subtle violet threading in the irises?

"Completely." Mikhail stepped past him into the entrance hall, refusing to be drawn into further explanation. "Is he in the study?"

Dmitri's hand shot out, gripping Mikhail's upper arm with bruising force. "Something's different about you, Volkov. I can sense it."

Mikhail glanced down at Dmitri's hand, then back up with ice in his gaze. "Remove your hand, or I'll remove it for you."

A dangerous smile spread across Dmitri's face. "Big words from a bottom-tier collector. Maybe I should—"

"Gentlemen." The voice cut through the tension like a scalpel—precise, cultured, and brooking no argument. Viktor Sokolov stood at the end of the hallway, a slender figure in an impeccably tailored suit of midnight blue. Though nearly seventy, he carried himself with the vigor of a man half his age, silver hair swept back from aristocratic features.

"The Patriarch awaits," Dmitri released Mikhail's arm with a final warning squeeze. "After you."

Mikhail followed Viktor down the corridor, its walls adorned with priceless art—Repin landscapes beside modern abstracts, a studied contrast that reflected the Patriarch's appreciation for both tradition and innovation. Dmitri followed a half-step behind, his presence a constant pressure at Mikhail's back.

They descended a spiral staircase to the first subterranean level, where the true heart of the Sokolov operations resided. The air changed here—drier, charged with subtle energy that Mikhail had always attributed to advanced climate control systems but now recognized as something else entirely. Resonance—the ambient energy of Contracts in close proximity.

Viktor led them to his private study, a circular room lined with leather-bound books and glass display cases containing artifacts similar to those in Mikhail's satchel. A massive desk of polished mahogany dominated the center, its surface bare except for a single crystal paperweight.

"Sit," Viktor gestured to one of two chairs facing the desk. Mikhail took the offered seat while Dmitri remained standing near the door, arms crossed.

Viktor settled into his chair with fluid grace, steepling his fingers before him. "Report."

"Target acquired, debt settled through artifact acquisition as instructed," Mikhail replied, placing the satchel on the desk. "Lebedev was in possession of several items of interest—coins, manuscripts, ritual objects."

Viktor's pale blue eyes, sharp as winter ice, studied Mikhail intently. "And his demeanor during the collection?"

An unusual question. Viktor rarely concerned himself with the emotional states of debtors. "Resigned at first, then strangely fatalistic. He spoke about the items as if they held some power over him."

"Did he resist?"

"Minimal. He attempted to use a small-caliber revolver but was subdued without incident."

Viktor nodded, reaching for the satchel. "Any complications I should be aware of?"

The Contract mark pulsed beneath Mikhail's sleeve, a silent warning. The air in the room seemed to thicken, charged with expectation.

"None worth reporting," Mikhail said, maintaining eye contact.

Viktor's lips curved in the ghost of a smile as he opened the satchel and began examining its contents. His fingers moved with the precision of an expert appraiser, lingering on each artifact with quiet appreciation. When he finished the inventory, his expression revealed nothing.

"Excellent pieces," he murmured. "Lebedev had better taste than expected." His gaze returned to Mikhail, penetrating in its intensity. "But something is missing, isn't it?"

Mikhail's pulse quickened, but his expression remained neutral. "The collection was thorough."

"I'm sure it was." Viktor leaned back, twirling the crystal paperweight between his fingers. The light catching in its facets cast prismatic patterns across the ceiling. "Dmitri, leave us."

Dmitri stiffened. "Sir, protocol suggests—"

"It wasn't a suggestion." Viktor's tone remained pleasant, but the temperature in the room seemed to drop several degrees.

With obvious reluctance, Dmitri exited, closing the door with controlled precision.

The moment the latch clicked, Viktor set down the paperweight and leaned forward. "Now, Mikhail, let's have an honest conversation about the Contract card that was in Lebedev's possession."

The words hit like a physical blow, but Mikhail kept his composure, years of discipline preventing even a twitch of recognition. "I'm not sure what you're referring to, sir."

Viktor sighed, disappointment evident. "I had hoped for candor. Allow me to be more explicit." He extended his hand, palm up, over the paperweight. "Blood reveals all secrets."

A drop of crimson appeared on Viktor's palm—no visible cut, no explanation for its sudden presence. It fell onto the crystal, which immediately began to glow with a golden light. The air around it shimmered, and a three-dimensional image formed above the desk—a perfect replica of Lebedev's apartment. The scene played out like security footage, showing Mikhail discovering the safe, examining its contents, and pocketing the card.

Viktor closed his fist, and the image dissipated. "The Crimson Thread Contract," he explained. "A-Rank. Allows me to create connections between objects or people that share blood contact. Lebedev's safe contained a splinter of my blood—a tracking method for valuable acquisitions."

Mikhail's mind raced through options. Denial was pointless. Attack was suicide. Escape was...

His eyes darted to the shadow beneath the desk—large enough for passage, connecting to deeper darkness beyond.

"Don't," Viktor warned softly. "Not yet. Your new abilities are untested, untrained. I would reach you before you took three steps into the void."

Mikhail froze, reassessing. "You knew the card would be there. You sent me specifically."

"Very good." Viktor nodded with teacher-like approval. "Yes, I arranged for Lebedev to acquire that particular Contract, knowing he lacked the capacity to activate it. I needed a certain type of individual to recover it—someone with untapped potential, someone with the right bloodline."

"My father," Mikhail said, the pieces clicking into place. "He worked for you."

"Pavel was one of my most valued associates." Viktor's expression softened with what appeared to be genuine regret. "His death was...unfortunate. Unnecessary. The previous Patriarch had different views on retirement policies."

The memory of the forest clearing flashed in Mikhail's mind—three figures surrounding his father. "He was trying to leave. To protect me."

"From this world, yes. But you were born to it, Mikhail. The blood that flows in your veins carries specific resonance patterns—compatibility markers that make you exceptionally receptive to certain Contract types." Viktor stood, moving to one of the display cases. "The card chose you as much as you chose it."

Mikhail remained seated, calculating his position. Viktor clearly knew far more about Contracts than he did. Fighting would be foolish. Running, equally so. Knowledge was his only viable currency.

"What happens now?" he asked, keeping his voice steady.

Viktor removed a small wooden box from the display case, returning to place it on the desk between them. "Now, you have a choice. The Family can confiscate your Contract—a painful but survivable process. Or..."

"Or?"

"Or you can fully join our inner circle. Train. Develop your abilities. Become more than a mere collector." Viktor opened the box, revealing a vial of clear liquid and a silver needle. "The choice is yours, but it must be made now."

Before Mikhail could respond, the door burst open. Dmitri strode in, his face flushed with anger, followed by a slender figure in a tailored black suit.

"Forgive the interruption, Father," Dmitri said, not sounding remotely apologetic. "But there's been a breach at the western perimeter. The Crimson Covenant has made a move."

The newcomer moved further into the room, and Mikhail found himself looking at a woman approximately his age, her pale blonde hair pulled into a severe bun, her features striking rather than conventionally beautiful. Her eyes—a startling amber—fixed on him with clinical assessment.

"This is the new Contract user?" she asked, her voice cool and precise. "Void Walker, C-Rank. Untrained. He'll be a liability in his current state."

Viktor's expression darkened. "Anya, now is not the time for your evaluations."

"On the contrary, Father," she replied, never taking her eyes off Mikhail. "If the Covenant is here for what I think they are, we need every available Contract user, trained or not."

An alarm sounded throughout the compound—three short bursts followed by a sustained tone. Viktor moved with sudden urgency, retrieving something from his desk drawer.

"Decision accelerated, Mikhail," he said, tossing a small object that Mikhail instinctively caught. A Contract card, similar to the one he'd found but marked with a different symbol—a crescent moon bisected by a straight line. "Secondary Contract, compatible with your first. You've shown initiative by keeping the Void Walker. Now show judgment by accepting this backup."

Dmitri's expression contorted with outrage. "You can't give him a second Contract before he's proven loyalty! The protocols—"

"Are mine to enforce or suspend," Viktor cut him off. "Anya, take Mikhail to the east wing. Show him the basics. If the Covenant breaches the inner sanctum, get him out through the old tunnels."

Anya nodded sharply. "Come," she ordered Mikhail, already moving toward the door.

Mikhail hesitated, the new card heavy in his palm. "Why trust me with this?"

Viktor's smile was thin but genuine. "Because Pavel's son would never ally with the Covenant. They're the ones who really killed your father—the ones who sent those assassins. Remember that when you face them today."

The compound's lights flickered, and a distant explosion shook dust from the ceiling. Dmitri drew a sleek pistol from his shoulder holster, checking its magazine with practiced efficiency.

"Go," Viktor commanded. "Your first lesson begins now, ready or not."

Mikhail pocketed the new card and followed Anya into the corridor, the wail of alarms growing louder. His Void Walker Contract pulsed in response to the danger, shadows around them seeming to deepen and reach toward him like eager fingers.

"Stay close," Anya instructed, her pace quickening. "The Covenant users are primarily Blood Resonance types—they'll sense your Contract activation from twenty meters if you use it carelessly."

"What exactly is the Crimson Covenant?" Mikhail asked as they turned down a narrower hallway.

"Religious fanatics who believe Contracts are pathways to divinity," she replied, checking corners before proceeding. "They collect blood from Contract users to synthesize new Contracts. Harvesting usually kills the donor."

Another explosion, closer this time. The lights died completely, plunging the corridor into darkness broken only by emergency strips along the baseboards.

Perfect conditions for a Void Walker.

Mikhail felt his Contract respond to the expanded darkness, power surging through the mark on his wrist. The shadows gained dimension, pathways opening where before there had been only walls.

"They're in the main security hub," Anya said, pressing a finger to a nearly invisible earpiece. "Cutting power was their first move. Father and Dmitri are holding the study, but we have at least six Covenant operators on this level."

She reached beneath her jacket, withdrawing not a gun but a slender dagger with a crimson blade that seemed to absorb rather than reflect the emergency lighting.

"What's our objective?" Mikhail asked, his hand moving to his Makarov.

"Get to the east wing armory," Anya replied. "You need proper equipment for Contract combat. That pistol will only slow them down."

They moved swiftly through the darkened corridors, Anya leading with confidence born of perfect familiarity with the compound's layout. Mikhail followed, his enhanced senses mapping the shadow networks that paralleled their path. If necessary, he could now step into darkness and emerge elsewhere—though with his limited training, the precision of such jumps remained questionable.

They were halfway to the east wing when the first attacker struck.

A figure materialized at the end of the hallway—a woman in a crimson bodysuit, her head shaved except for a single braid that whipped behind her as she charged. Her eyes glowed an unnatural red, and what appeared to be living tattoos writhed across her exposed arms, black symbols swimming across her skin like serpents.

"Blood Weaver," Anya hissed, dropping into a combat stance. "B-Rank. Don't let her touch you."

The attacker's hands blurred through a complex series of gestures. The air around her fingers grew thick and dark, coalescing into whip-like extensions that lashed forward with unnatural speed.

Anya moved like water, her body flowing around the attacks with balletic precision. Her dagger flashed, intercepting one blood-whip and causing it to dissolve on contact with the crimson blade.

Mikhail drew his Makarov, firing two precise shots. The first went wide as the attacker twisted unnaturally. The second struck her shoulder but seemed to have minimal effect—the wound sealed instantly as the living tattoos converged on the injury.

"Conventional weapons are useless," Anya called, ducking another attack. "Use your Contract!"

Easier said than done. Mikhail had successfully made one jump under controlled conditions. Combat application was an entirely different scenario.

The Blood Weaver noticed his hesitation and redirected her attack, one whip shooting toward Anya while another lashed at Mikhail's legs. He leapt backward, narrowly avoiding contact, but the retreat positioned him against a wall with no room to maneuver.

The next attack would connect. The blood-whip arced toward his chest, promising agonizing contact.

Instinct took over. Mikhail reached for the nearest shadow—a deep patch of darkness where wall met floor—and *pulled* himself into it.

The void embraced him, cold and weightless. For a fraction of a second, he existed as pure intention rather than physical form, aware of all shadow connections within his immediate vicinity. He sensed pathways to a dozen different emergence points, including one directly behind the Blood Weaver.

Mikhail directed himself toward it, compressing what felt like vast distance into a single thought.

He emerged from shadow directly behind the attacker, disoriented but functioning. Before she could react to his disappearance and reappearance, he struck—not with his gun but with the edge of his hand against the base of her skull, a killing blow he'd been trained to deliver since adolescence.

The impact should have severed her spinal cord. Instead, her skin yielded like struck putty, absorbing and dispersing the force. She whirled to face him, a smile of religious ecstasy distorting her features.

"Void affinity," she hissed, voice resonating with unnatural harmonics. "The Harvest will be pleased."

Her blood-whips reformed, thicker and darker than before, reaching for Mikhail with hungry precision. He dodged the first but knew he couldn't evade the second—

A flash of movement, and Anya was between them, her dagger slicing through the attacker's forearm. Unlike Mikhail's strike, her blade met genuine resistance, cutting through flesh and bone with sickening efficiency.

The Blood Weaver screamed, her remaining whips dissolving as she clutched the stump of her severed arm. The wound didn't seal—whatever power Anya's dagger possessed prevented the Contract's regenerative properties from functioning.

"Crimson Thread negates other blood-based Contracts," Anya explained, not even breathing hard. "A specialty of our family."

She advanced on the wounded attacker, who backed away in genuine fear.

"Tell your Harvest that the Sokolov Family remains closed to their collection efforts," Anya said, her voice taking on the same cultured tone as her father's. "This is your only warning."

The Blood Weaver's eyes darted between them, calculating odds that had shifted dramatically against her. "This isn't over," she snarled, before pressing her remaining hand against the wall.

The concrete rippled like disturbed water, creating a red-tinged opening. She stepped backward into it, the portal sealing instantly behind her.

Mikhail stared at the now-solid wall. "She had a transportation Contract too?"

"Blood Gates. Limited range, but effective for retreats." Anya wiped her dagger on a handkerchief before resheathing it. "Your shadow step was impressive for a first combat application."

"It was instinct more than skill," Mikhail admitted.

"The best Contract users operate on instinct," she replied. "Overthinking creates hesitation. Hesitation creates corpses."

Another explosion rocked the compound, this one close enough to shower them with plaster dust.

"We need to move," Anya said. "That was just a scout. The real attack force will be more coordinated."

As they continued toward the east wing, Mikhail felt the second Contract card in his pocket—a weight and presence distinct from his Void Walker mark. Viktor had called it compatible, a backup. But Mikhail had heard enough about Contracts in the past hour to know that multiple bindings carried significant risks.

"The second card," he said as they navigated through the emergency-lit corridors. "What is it?"

Anya glanced back, her amber eyes reflecting the dim light like a predator's. "Lunar Echo. C-Rank Spectral type. It creates short-term duplicates of the user that can act independently. Useful for distractions."

"And the risks?"

Her lips curved in a humorless smile. "Personality fragmentation if overused. The duplicates develop independent thought patterns that can bleed back into the original consciousness."

Before Mikhail could respond, they reached a heavy steel door marked with the Sokolov family crest. Anya pressed her palm against a scanner, and the door slid open to reveal an armory that looked more like a museum of arcane weaponry than a conventional arsenal.

"Welcome to your first Contract combat lesson," she said, gesturing him inside. "We have approximately five minutes before the Covenant's main force reaches this section. Let's make them count."

Mikhail stepped into the armory, his Void Walker Contract thrumming with anticipation. The shadows around the room's exotic weapons seemed to whisper promises of power and potential.

His first real test was minutes away, and failure would mean more than simple death. It would mean the loss of his newfound abilities before he'd even begun to understand them.

As Anya closed the armory door behind them, sealing them in with the tools of Contract warfare, Mikhail recalled his father's words from that night in the forest clearing:

*The darkness serves those who understand its nature, not those who fear it.*

He wasn't afraid. Not of the darkness, not of the Covenant, not of the power growing within him. And that, perhaps, was what should have frightened him most of all.