PROLOGUE | " WHEN THE SERPENT BITES "

.: DECEMBER 1988 :.

THE DARK AND SMOKY AIR OF FROST STIRRED UP THE SUNSET.

St. Petersburg was covered in a thin blanket of winter's drizzle, sprinkled with the sweetest sugar. Tiny snowflakes drifted, twirled in the light breeze, and descended on the roofs, piling up as if the winter was never supposed to end. The puddles of freshly melted snow mirrored the lights of the starry night, as well as the radiance of crystal chandeliers; its rays were peeking through the tall windows of the former imperial palace.

A place that was usually so quiet, was now anticipating the visit of many as the colonnade was filled with parked cars. The entrance welcomed people of the upper class dressed in real animal fur. Surely they were excited to attend this one-in-a-lifetime occasion, the meeting of the gruesome masterminds that on a daily basis were successfully covering collateral damage in the corrupted politics of the soviet union.

The media blackout after the explosion of Chornobyl's reactor was just the beginning of the constant contribution to the demise of the political system. Rather than focus on the problems in the political system itself, they tried to erase people that were trying to expose it.

This was just two years ago and they never stopped.

A life sparked in the Anichkov Palace, a life that was within Viktor's reach since he was them; the ones that were hired to bring the USSR back to its glory.

Viktor Alexandrovich Mikhailov was one of the graduates of the Brotherhood, a self-proclaimed academy, a program that inspired the Red Room. Men like him were taught from a very young age to heartlessly exterminate only to deserve a place in the KGB, the main security agency.

Of course, not every student got these opportunities like him. Some of them didn't survive a day there, he survived those who didn't due to his father's will, killing and hard work was the only thing Viktor ever knew.

After graduation, he finally wanted to live and tried to separate himself from being the one behind the USSR government's safety and being a human with a heart made of gold. Viktor decided to finally live a life with the will he always wanted and that was life reliant on his own will not his father's.

Nevertheless the mission fiasco in Sokovia - that got his identity exposed, even to his family - made him realize that he truly can't live the life of his dreams, which was depicted in all of his essays that were later on torn apart by the wise behind all of the brotherhood madness.

Wise is the man who disdains no character.

Wise is the Forefather.

As soon as Viktor got the instructions from the executive to assassinate the Forefather, he thought of it as a plan of a rebirth.

A cloud of condensed exhales ascended, engulfing the snowflakes into a transparent bubble that popped as Viktor inhaled the coldness.

Viktor was lying down on one of the roofs of the palace's wings that had a view of the windows of the main hall where the gathering was held. Leaning onto his sniper rifle, the eyes were finally on the target.

The attached telescopic sight revealed another two figures near the Forefather, finalizing the big three.

Viktor uttered a silent chuckle as his father Alexander — Commander Mikhailov — was trying his best to impress the newest addition; the prodigy; General Dreykov. It was no secret that Dreykov was the star of this evening, as the latest overseer of the Red Room and the creator of the Red Guardian, he had so much knowledge to share as his mind was purely brilliant.

On the other hand, Commander Mikhailov; looked surly, well, he was always this kind of sullen old man, obsessed with perfection in any shape or form. That was how he claimed it in front of others, in reality, Alexander was far from being flawless. Still, somehow he managed to keep his title, and most importantly he was the pride of the Ukrainian soviet socialist republic.

Both of them were embraced as the embodiment of dignity, yet none of them held power as the Forefather.

The simple raise of the glass managed everyone to quiet down. It appeared as if Saint Petersburg went into complete tranquility at the same time as the edge of the glass glistened underneath the glow of light.

Everyone was waiting for a speech, with sparks dancing in their eyes, sticking around for wisdom coming from a toast. Forefather's wrinkled lips turned into a smirk, "To us!"

To us, Viktor mouthed the words with him.

Although he wasn't completely present — couldn't hear the exact words — he knew what he was going to say as the Soviet Union was good at making people believe that they belong and their voice was heard despite the fact that their desires meant nothing.

Everyone was involved. Men. Women. Children.

Even if they didn't want to be, they had no other option than accept the truthfulness of unity.

Therefore Forefather wasn't a man of speech, he was a man of acts. People cheered, raising champagne glasses, unknowingly praising the wisdom of a man that stole countless lives.

This was his time to bring them back.

Viktor gently placed his finger on the trigger, ready to pull it. His breaths accelerated. His hand started to tingle as it was stuck in one position, in a spasm that he couldn't feel. He excessively swallowed the guilt of touching the icy rifle's trigger.

Commander Mikhailov patted the Forefather congratulatory on the back.

Viktor's teeth were now gritted.

He somehow felt the touch too. Something drew maps underneath his coat that were scribbled over with shivers; as if he crossed a line.

His heart palpitated, missing a whole beat.

Viktor's darted eyes were still fixedly watching the target — the man that gave him a home, unlike his father.

He imagined the blood splatter on his father's polished suit. What would be his reaction? Commander Mikhailov was the type of person that enjoyed misery. Would he enjoy the misery of a person he admired? Of course, he wouldn't. However, if the blood splatter was Viktor's, underlining his endless suffering, Mikhailov wouldn't even blink, only to see his son's perfection finally fulfilling its purpose.

That image made Viktor shake his head.

If there's only a way to prove to him, that he's greater than that.

Hope arose in his eyes, muscles tensed, perceiving Forefather turning his back. Finger brushed the trigger. Now or never.

Clack.

Viktor pulled away, narrowing his eyes. Rifle yanked him. Everything happened so quickly. He detached the sight and secured the sniper. Viktor withdrew from the roof's horizon, taking a glimpse at the windows one last time.

Piercing wind pounded on his face and made the bits of snow land on his shoulders. He inhaled the sorrow, looking for euphoria.

Forefather merrily continued to drink champagne while discussing his future plans with his comrades.

Viktor didn't take the shot, because he just couldn't.

He deeply knew that Forefather gave his life meaning. A meaning that soothed the souls of many, especially his and fathers. Whilst he was hired to kill, he had no right to kill his creator. At least that's what he had been told.

There was nothing to prove. No point in being greater, returning the lives that were stolen.

Viktor was the one hired to harvest souls all along. Although it was making his heart tear apart, today he decided not to.

With Dragunov on his back, Viktor swiftly ran to the roof's hip where he slid down the edge. The cold was stabbing his forearm until he got near the rain gutter. Ready to jump across the alley to the open window of a building that was now in front of him.

His pupils tapered, perceiving in the corner of an eye pulsing red gadget that was stuck on the roof tile, "K Chyortu!"

The loud explosion changed his trajectory and threw him through the other window. A loud thud resounded as the sound of shattering glass in ringing ears. Viktor rolled and eventually landed on his shoulder. A groan left his lips. The whole room was spinning, same as the rifle slithering to the corner.

Viktor kneeled as he felt something gripping his coat. He aggressively grasped the hem but was interrupted.

Another thud reverberated, joined with a clasp loose carbine hook.

The swirling snowflakes outlined the white silhouette near the window frame. One, no, three lights, beaming in green, danced on the hung paintings, attempting to scan the darkroom. Viktor stood up, squinting to soothe his shaky vision, yet he was forced to clench his eyelids.

Blinded. The green orbs stopped at him with a head tilt. Even though he restricted himself from interfering, he had company. One of Dreykov's widows.

Widow sprang to him.

A rapid movement of her hand expanded a telescopic stick. She stretched out. Viktor blocked the blow at the side of his neck.

Just in a second, the stick hit his kneecap. His knees bent and another swoosh of a stick resounded. He backed away, stumbling. Hand clenched into a fist aimed at the widow's head. The fist stopped in mid-air as the stick touched his forearm from below. Quick rotation freed the stick, now pushing upwards on Viktor's throat.

He was forced back, even more, crashing into a wall. The framed paintings rattled. Viktor shortly gasped due to the pressure on Adam's apple.

He gulped for air. His left arm was pressing her shoulder. Gnashing of teeth turned into cry out. He outreached at the least expected moment and eventually took off the atrocious night vision goggles.

They dropped down, revealing the face of his opponent, "You?"

Belava Mikhailova, his sister, always had to prove that she was better than him.

"No shit. You really think dad would get in this suit?" she declared, low-key chuckling but her concentration wouldn't allow it.

Viktor unexpectedly grabbed the stick and pushed it against her. Nevertheless, Belava was pushing it back at him, just like a tug-of-war. Suddenly they switched positions, dragging her across the wall. The edge of the stick scraped the paint off one of the faces on displayed portraits.

Viktor wanted to get rid of her weapons but she was a tough little lady.

His hand pushed on Belava's head, especially his cheek. Grip slightly eased, until he felt a light pinch on the lower thumb section. Viktor's eyes widened, snatching his hand back, "Did you just bite me?"

"Not really. I only injected the venom." Belava shrugged innocently, gasping for air; while making a joke about the famous widow's bite. When he was inattentive, she pushed him aside with a kick, retreating back the stick that had shrunk as she raised her right hand, to make sure he was out of reach. The left one, instantly stroke place near the collarbone.

"Don't worry, as far as I know, it's not deadly," Belava stepped away from him, with back still leaning on the wall, "but I might be."

Viktor kept his balance, hanging his head down as drips of blood were wetting his clothes. The coat. Finally grasping the hem, it revealed a small shard piercing his hip.

His head still spun, trying to remind him of how it should feel. It didn't look that deep at first glance but that didn't keep him from asking. Was it fatal? No, it couldn't be, if it was, he would...

How could he know? It was a long time ago that he got to feel any type of pain. He remembered being beaten, but the lack of the sense of torture made everything so unclear.

That was why he left the other window open. He tried to be very conscious about his body. Afraid, he carefully pulled the shard.

"That wasn't me," Belava blurted out, observing the dead stare Viktor gave her. A dead stare that tried its best to portray pain, but it looked more like a frown.

Luckily, only the tip of it did scrape his body. That calmed his soul a bit.

Belava looked somewhere else, as it brought uneasiness to her stomach. She intentionally peeked behind him. That made him realize...

What if the bite wasn't really the source of the pinch?

He was so right. Pulling out of his shoulder pocket the knife that before dug into his skin, made him anxious. She knew what she was doing.

"Yep, that was," she confirmed his silent theories, grinning.

"I thought we had a deal."

"Oh? Did we?"

Viktor was disappointed with this outcome. Due to his training in the brotherhood, he was exploited to a serum that relieved him of psychical pain. He thought of it as a curse that was getting rid of his humanity and Belava took it as an advantage against him. Just by that, he felt vulnerable.

His hands quivered, "No knives in fights, remember?"

"You literally gave me a cold shoulder, so I took the opportunity. Be glad I didn't stab your back."

"Backstabbing? You must have learned that from our father, haven't you?" Viktor shook his head in disbelief. He closed the knife to give it back to her.

Belava chortled, "Actually that was a good one, but not so close. . . He taught me to look up to you, Viktor."

Viktor wasn't a backstabber and if that was really what Mikhailov was telling her this whole time, that made him even more devastated.

Belava slowly approached him, reaching for the knife when he briskly grabbed her by the hair thus she leaned on his wrist. He wanted to teach a lesson. The knife fell to the ground.

Belava whimpered in pain, "What about no hair pulls in fights? Are you sure we haven't talked about that?"

Viktor pulled even harder. She cried out, "Aughhh! Of course, we didn't."

"So, sestra, was it just you who saw me?" Viktor began the interrogation.

She nodded, well, that wasn't even a nod, only an attempt of that, "Fortunately."

"Fortunately?"

A weird gurgle noise came out of her mouth as her head tilted backward, "Yeah, cause now I can beat the shit of you myself."

Her body rotated with a ponytail. Now facing him, Belava pulled him into her guard. Both of them ended up falling to the ground.

Viktor dropped on her, pinning her wrist while still grabbing her hair. Belava inserted her knees onto his stomach, to keep distance between them.

Her legs over his neck, attempting to lock them in the triangle choke. She squeezed her thighs slightly, which made Viktor let go of her hair, thinking it would gain complete control over him. However, he blocked her legs with his right hand.

As he pressed his elbow on her left hip, both of his hands grabbed the fabric of her pants. He turned sideways, trying to sit up.

Belava recognized the escape move very well so she squeezed it more, finally locking him to remain motionless, "Ha!"

Viktor gasped due to the lack of air, feeling the burden on his throat. His posture eased as the left hand blindly wandered on her leg. Unexpectedly, he pulled her knee towards him, even closer, and unexpectedly brought it to the floor, having all his weight lie right on it.

She was on the ground, in a much worse position than he was before. Her back was turned to him, she had to look over her shoulder to see anything. Moaned in pain, Belava's hand tried to get near him to secure the grip but he essentially grabbed her foot, to prevent her from moving and eventually got up to escape.

Viktor's eyes started to wander across the floor, looking for the knife. His sister was quick, had fast reflexes, and was famous for successfully repeating her tricks. Seeing the pocket knife lying down next to the rifle; unless she had an ace up her sleeve, he still sighed in relief.

Viktor staggered back with a hand pressed on his hip. His chest rose up while straightening his back, his mouth hung open, "You're so predictable."

Belava, now lying on her back, wiped a tiny tear stuck in the corner of her eye. A woman like her wasn't made for defeat. She even rejected his hand given to help out.

"I wish I could say the same about you," Belava muttered angrily, standing up with a white suit covered in blood that her brother shredded.

Viktor watched her with heavy breaths, somewhat sad, "He sent you, did he?"

"Why are you bothered about that Viktor?" She questioned back, completely annoyed.

"Huh?"

"Why aren't you bothered about the fact we haven't seen each other for so long?" Belava gushed, frowning, desperately trying to lock eyes with him.

"Wha— What do you mean? It's been only a year," Viktor was proving his point, unfortunately, the truth was somewhere else.

"Bozhe! You can't be serious," Belava shook her head with a hand placed on her forehead, stepping away from him as if she was following her flow of thoughts. She quietly picked up the pocket knife. Her lips curled downwards, examining the stained blade, "Forget it."

"You did you say we haven't seen each other for so long? Why would you say that? We saw each other year ago. . ."

Viktor was patiently waiting for her response, deeply believing that it had a much bigger meaning which he was in fact afraid of.

Belava shook her head.

"It was five years!"

"Five years ago you promised me you would come back for me," she sniveled, "and you never did."

Five years ago?  Viktor's heart thudded. Time was running really fast, she grew up right in front of his eyes. His mind and body became a wreck, knowing that the cold shoulder wasn't only a metaphor. Lips shivered, ready to apologize, however, he knew damn well it was too late.

"Not only did you break your promise, but you broke me as well. . ."