The Sokolovs had been around since World War III, Russia having won the war with China, expanded its borders, encroaching further into Eastern Europe. The war had brought the family into power, focused on smuggling firearms and dealing with the poppy trade.
The mafia had gotten far too large to remove, so the government gave its acquiescence to their presence, though no one can say for certain if it wasn't done out of the interest of their own pocket.
For 200 years, rules and traditions had been passed from generation to generation. The most lucrative and sought for all between all its executives was the [Heir selection]
—
With ragged breath, children just reaching adolescence ran at high speeds with nothing but the clothes on their backs and dry rations that could only last them a day.
An orange band on their arms, it read [добыча]
Gunshots rang wildly as they ran to hide in shelters; some had teamed together while others broke off from the pack. One instance was a boy with dark hair and crystal blue eyes.
Though his ears and cheeks had flushed red from the cold, his gaze remained focused; he would be killed by the hunters camp.
The [Heir selection] has always been a bloody battle; it was tradition. The more the bastard children, the more drawn out and brutal it is.
And this was simply one of those 'trials' to thin out the competition.
Hidden behind the thickets, Caesar held his breath as he watched, crouched between the shrubs. A boy much older than they aimed a gun at a girl's head.
The child couldn't even cry before she was shot in the eye, Caesar grit his teeth, even daring to blink or move. If he's found…
Tik.
A pistol cocked itself to Caesar's direction, without hesitation, it shot twice, a curling scream echoed in the forest, followed by panicked footsteps.
But the hunter, unfazed, turned to remove the orange band from the girl's body, stashing it away in his bag. Inside were different sizes, but all the same sickening orange.
Not even bothering to loot the body, the hunter leisurely stood, walking away to chase after its injured prey. Crushing down the snow right in front of Caesar's face.
The hunter had missed him; he could only clutch his chest to calm his beating heart. For a moment, he thought he'd die.
Crawling out of his position, Caesar grit his teeth as he saw his half-sister's blown-off face.
I need to survive. I need to survive and get home to my real sisters.
He whispered to himself before he crutched down to loot the corpse of its rations, finding a flint and a Swiss knife.
It had been 3 months since he woke up as Caesar Sokolov. In those 3 months, his food and drink had always been poisoned.
Now in the dead of winter, he was labeled as [prey], pitted against other heir candidates. For the prey camp, the objective was to survive the week; for the [hunters], a certain quota of prey must be reached.
Kill or be killed.
In that trial, only 5 prey lived, Caesar included. But the poor child, before he could celebrate, was thrust into even greater danger.
In books, when a villain is introduced to have been molded the way they are, made to become the heinous evil, no one ever ponders it too deeply.
How a machine is made, by bolts or nails, what matters is its function.
And to be Tsar, a defective machine that feels and hesitates to kill, is to be disposed of.
Holding on to the knife's handle in cold fury, a boy who just turned 18 stood still as he stared down at the Doberman's corpse.
The cut was clean. The good boy died swiftly; perhaps it didn't even register that it had been killed by its sweet owner… or perhaps it decided not to learn.
"Good boy, it wasn't difficult now was it-"
Picking up the phone, the teen hurled it at the window. With a crash, the cellular phone cracked on impact, falling off the mansion's cliff edge.
In a ragged breath, he crutched to cradle the dog's body. The blood had coagulated, leaving a cold, stiff corpse lying in the position he was killed in. Yet the boy held it dearly, hoping to share his warmth with the irrational hope to bring the poor pup back alive.
But the silence didn't last long, with a ring, Albert produced another one, answering the voice call, the same voice echoed in the room, this time its monotony had been filled with a certain mirth.
"What a temper, I even graced you with a choice, yet here you are whining. To be my heir, this much is least expected."
"I never wanted to be–!"
Cut short, Caesar's neck was long ceased, his body lifted off the ground as he tried to struggle out of Albert's hold.
"Five years in, and still feisty. Commendable but stupid. I didn't bed your prostitute of a mother to produce useless shit. Wanna die? Be my guest, I'll feed your corpse to the wolves."
A cold hollow laughter rang out of the receiver before Caesar's body was dropped, and not even a minute passed before he was dragged out.
"You either be a Tzar or die trying. Dumb kid. Albert, lock him up till he comes to his senses."
The coughing boy managed to rasp out a yell, kicking the men grappling at his limbs- "Let go of me!"
"And the dog's corpse, sir?"
Frozen at the inquiry, Caesar paused, his crystal blue eyes focused on the phone in urgent breaths.
"Chop it up and throw it out! Oh, and have the bitch disposed of. What a cursed pussy can't even take a dick or push a good kid out."
"No.No.No. No! Stop!"- His blood ran cold as Caesar resisted even fiercer.
He fought hard to get out of their hold, and though no longer the weak child he was 5 years ago, the men were twice his size, and more in number. He could only watch in horror as Albert brought down a cleaver over his dog's corpse.
With a resounding thud, the head rolled out just enough to stop by Caesar's bare toes, its brown innocent eyes staring at him.
"I'll kill him…"
He muttered under his breath before he was dragged off to the basement.
In the deepest and lowest level of the mansion, tall metal double doors closed shut, drowning out any sound of what may be inside.
—
The Sokolovs bade their time to make the best out of him. The perfect heir to be the next Tsar and to survive against that villain of a father…
Even I'm not sure if I haven't become one myself.