Bloodline Protocol

CHAPTER 1 — THE BLOOD NIGHT

The thunder cracked like a warning. Derick’s mother leaned down, kissed his forehead, and whispered, “Dream good dreams, baby.” He smiled sleepily, eyes half-closed. “’Night, Mom.”

She lingered at the door, silhouette framed by the dim hall light. Then the door closed with a soft click. Silence settled. A minute passed.  Then—Bang.

Derick’s eyes snapped open. Another gunshot followed, then a scream, his mother’s. He sat up fast, heart pounding, every nerve screaming at him to move. “Mom?” His voice was barely a whisper.

Through the thin walls came heavy footsteps, breaking glass, men shouting. Then, pleading. His father’s voice.

“Please, whatever you want, we can”

Bang.

The sound was so loud it tore the breath out of Derick’s chest. He froze, trembling. Then he heard his mother’s voice again, soft, broken, closer. “Derick…”

He scrambled from the bed just as the door creaked open. She was crawling across the floor, blood trailing behind her like spilled ink. “Mom!” He dropped to his knees beside her, eyes wide with terror.

Her hand shook as she pressed something cold and heavy into his palms, a small black notebook smeared with her blood. “Listen to me,” she gasped. “Don’t speak. Just listen.”

Derick couldn’t stop shaking. “I—what’s happening”

“They’re going to come back,” she whispered. “You have to hide. You have to disappear.”

“Where’s Dad?”

She closed her eyes. “Gone.”

Her voice cracked; her breathing was shallow. The distant sound of men talking came from the living room.

“You have to take this book. Promise me.”

He looked at it, ordinary, leather-bound, but strange symbols burned faintly on its cover. “What’s in it?”

“The truth.” Her lips trembled. “Names… accounts… the people who did this.”

Tears blurred his vision. “I don’t understand.”

“You will.” She grabbed his wrist hard, her fingers slick with blood. “Change your name. Don’t trust anyone. Find the signal in the book when you’re ready.”

“The signal?”

“You’ll know.”

The footsteps grew louder, boots stomping down the hall. She pushed him toward the closet. “Hide, now!”

“Mom, no”

“Go, Derick!”

He stumbled inside, clutching the notebook. The door barely closed before men burst into the room, three of them, all masked. “Where’s the boy?” one barked.

“Dead,” his mother croaked. “You already killed him.”

Derick bit his hand to keep from crying out. “She’s lying,” said another voice, cold, precise. “Check.”

A gun cocked. “Please,” his mother whispered, “you don’t have to”

Bang.

The closet door shook. Derick’s world shattered. He didn’t breathe. Didn’t move. The men lingered. One cursed, “Waste of time. Let’s torch it and go.”

Their boots retreated. Glass broke again. Then, the whoosh of fire catching. Smoke crawled under the door, gray and bitter.

Derick finally burst from the closet. His throat burned as he knelt beside her. “Mom! Mom, please!”

Her eyes were open but fading. “Run,” she mouthed.

He clutched her hand until it went limp. Then he ran, through the flames, through the wreck of his home, past his father’s body lying near the stairs.

The front door hung open. The rain outside hissed against the fire. Derick staggered into the street barefoot, soaked, shaking, the black book still clutched to his chest.

Hours later, the sirens had died. The house was gone. Derick sat in an alley, blanket around his shoulders, staring at the book. His mind refused to rest. He replayed the gunshots over and over.

A police officer approached, crouched beside him. “Son, what’s your name?”

Derick’s voice was barely there. “They… they killed my mom.”

“I know, kid. We’ll find them, okay? You’re safe now.”

He looked up at the man. Behind the officer’s comforting tone, his eyes flickered toward the book in Derick’s hands. “That yours?”

Derick’s gut twisted. His mother’s words echoed: Don’t trust anyone. He nodded slowly, then shook his head. “No, sir. Just found it on the ground.”

The officer’s eyes narrowed, but he smiled anyway. “Alright. Let’s get you somewhere warm.”

Derick hid the book under his blanket. Three days later, under the flicker of hospital lights, Derick overheard the detectives talking outside his room.

“Family’s gone. No relatives.”

“Someone torched the house. Clean job. Professional.”

“What about the kid?”

“He won’t make a difference. Files are sealed. Orders from above.”

Orders from above. Derick stared at the ceiling. Every sound faded. Inside, something dark and cold began to grow.

That night, he slipped out of bed, stole a nurse’s keycard, and walked out of the hospital barefoot into the rain. He had no plan, no money, just the book.

He stopped under a flickering streetlight, opened it. Inside, under the first page, faint writing glowed when the raindrops touched it: “To unlock the truth, find the mark of the serpent.”

The ink shimmered, then disappeared. Derick closed the book slowly. “I’ll find them,” he whispered. “Every last one.”

The city stretched before him, cold and endless. The boy was gone. Only the hunter remained.