In the dark and relentless world of assassins bound by codes, hidden allegiances, and unbreakable oaths, Blood Oaths and Shadows offers a thrilling collection of interconnected short stories set within the legendary universe of John Wick. These stor...
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Viktor Petrov died like he lived—expensive suit, expensive watch, expensive mistakes. The young man who killed him adjusted his tie, watching blood seep into imported silk. Master craftsmanship, ruined by poor choices. A fitting metaphor.
"Clean," a voice observed from the doorway. "Though you lingered too long on the second strike."
James Chen turned to face his mentor, Marcus Voss. The older assassin's silver hair caught the moonlight streaming through the penthouse windows, his black suit immaculate as always. Everything about Marcus spoke of precision, from his Windsor knot to his leather oxfords.
"The first hit severed his carotid," James explained. "I wanted to ensure—"
"That he suffered?" Marcus raised an eyebrow. "Sentiment has no place in our profession. Clean kills. Clean exits. No signatures."
James nodded, suppressing his irritation. After two years under Marcus's tutelage, he'd learned more about killing than most assassins learned in a lifetime. But lately, each lesson felt like a test he was destined to fail.
"The contract is complete," James said. "Petrov's marker is settled."
"Indeed." Marcus studied the corpse with clinical detachment. "Though I suspect this particular debt runs deeper than a mere marker."
Something in his mentor's tone made James pause. "What do you mean?"
"Come. We have a appointment to keep." Marcus turned, expecting to be followed. As always, James fell into step behind him, questions burning unasked on his tongue.
They took the service elevator down sixty floors, emerging into Mumbai's sweltering night. The city pulsed around them—a living organism of light and sound and secrets. Their driver, Wei, waited with the Bentley. No words were exchanged as they slipped into the leather interior.
"The Continental?" Wei asked.
"No." Marcus's voice was distant. "The Temple."
James fought to keep his expression neutral. The Temple of the Nine was off-limits to most assassins—a sanctuary where the High Table's most senior members conducted their business. He'd never been inside, never even seen it.
"Master Voss," he ventured carefully, "I don't have clearance for—"
"Tonight you do." Marcus handed him a small box of dark wood, carved with intricate symbols. "Your work with Petrov has earned you an audience."
James accepted the box, feeling its weight. "An audience with whom?"
"The Twelve."
The word hung in the air like smoke. The Twelve—the High Table's inner circle, tasked with maintaining balance in the underground world. Some said they were former assassins who'd proven themselves worthy of elevation. Others claimed they were something older, darker. James had always assumed they were myth.
