Saving Anastasia (Death Game Series 01)

 "Grandpa, why can’t I play with them?"

My voice was small, almost afraid of the answer. I stood at the edge of the training field, watching the kids chase each other like butterflies in the wind. Their laughter floated in the air like songbirds—free and light. I wanted to join them. I wanted to feel that lightness too.

But Grandpa’s eyes were made of stone that day.

“Because you’re different, Anastasia,” he said, his tone firm like a steel door closing. “Playing like them won’t make you the greatest agent.”

I blinked up at him, my heart aching in a way I couldn’t name. I was only seven. I didn’t understand why fun was a crime.

My hands were shaking as I stepped onto the training mat. Tears blurred my eyes as he tossed the wooden staff toward me. I caught it—barely.

“Guard up,” he barked. “Footwork. Focus!”

The world became a blur of pain and sweat. My legs burned. My arms ached. The stick knocked against mine again and again like thunder chasing lightning. I stumbled. I fell. I cried—not just from the stinging bruises but from the quiet wish in my chest that maybe, just maybe, I could be a little girl and not a soldier.

But even through the tears, I stood back up. Because part of me—somewhere deep, deep down—wanted to prove him right.

I was sitting on the stairs, hugging my knees. The wooden railing pressed into my back, but I didn’t move. I could hear them arguing down the hallway—my father and Grandpa. Their voices bounced off the walls like thunder in a storm.

“Dad, stop pressuring Anastasia to do a lot of training!” My father’s voice cracked with anger and worry. “She just lost her mom!”

His words hit something deep inside me. I closed my eyes, squeezing them tight. Mama’s voice still lived in the corners of our home, soft and fading, like wind whispering through curtains. Now it was gone. And everything felt colder.

"You think I don’t know that?" Grandpa snapped back, his voice like gravel under boots. “But loss is part of the path. And she must learn to carry it.” 

I covered my ears, but it was too late—the words had already slipped into my chest like splinters.

"She’s seven!" my father shouted, angrier now. "She needs time to heal, not to be broken further. You’re turning her into a weapon!"

"Better a weapon than a victim!" Grandpa shot back, louder. "You think love makes you strong? No. It makes you foolish. You fell in love, Carlos, knowing it could destroy us all. And now look—"

"Don’t you dare—" my father’s voice cracked. "She was my wife."

Grandpa lowered his voice, but the cold edge stayed. "And Anastasia was her daughter. But feelings won’t keep her alive. Skill will. Strength will. Discipline will."

"She’s not a soldier!" Dad nearly begged. "She’s just a child!"

There was a long pause. Then Grandpa said, almost quietly, “She won’t be… for long.”

I heard my father sob then. Not like how a child cries, but like a man who had held everything in too long. Each breath he took sounded jagged, like it hurt just to speak.

“You have no heart.” He choked the words out. “None.”

Another silence. And then Grandpa again, voice like a sword drawn from its sheath.

“I don’t?” he said. “I am saving your daughter… because you couldn’t.”

The house felt too quiet after that. My own breath sounded loud in my ears. I didn’t know which one of them was right. I didn’t even know what “safe” meant anymore.

I ran to my room as fast as my legs could carry me. My feet pounded the wooden floor like a frightened drumbeat, and when I finally reached the door, I slammed it shut and collapsed onto the bed. The tears came fast—hot, wild, and messy. I cried hard, burying my face into the pillow, trying to hide the sound even though no one was listening.

I didn’t understand anything.

Grown-ups were shouting. Grandpa was always angry. Dad looked like he was made of pieces that didn’t fit together anymore.

And me? I just wanted my mom.

Before she died… everything felt warm. Safe. Whole. Every time Dad had to go on one of his secret missions, Mom and I would stay at her flower shop. That place was our little world. The air always smelled like fresh earth and soft petals. Mama used to say, "Flowers are like hearts—they bloom when cared for."

She would laugh, twirl a sunflower in her hand, and say, “This one’s for you, my sunshine.” And I would take it like it was treasure. Maybe that’s why it’s the only memory I can hold on to without it slipping through my fingers. Maybe I was too young to keep more.

I thought I had forever.

But forever ended on the day everything broke.

That day, at the shop, she had just handed me a daisy—white and yellow, my favorite. I still remember how soft the petals felt in my hand, like tiny clouds. Then the bell above the door rang. Three tall men in black suits stepped inside. Their eyes scanned the room like shadows searching for light.

I saw her body stiffen. She didn’t smile. She didn’t speak. Her eyes, usually gentle, turned sharp—like she was suddenly made of glass and steel.

She knelt beside me fast. Her hands gripped my shoulders.

“My love,” she whispered, brushing the hair from my face, “Anastasia, Mommy will come back, hm?”

She kissed my forehead. I could feel her lips trembling.

“Mommy, I’m scared…” I said, my voice no louder than a breeze through leaves.

She gave a soft chuckle—brave and broken at the same time. “It’s okay to be scared, Anastasia. Mommy is here.” Her voice was the warmest thing I’d ever known. “But now, I need you to be quiet and stay low. Can you do that for Mommy?”

I nodded quickly.

She opened the wooden cabinet under the counter. It was full of flowers—roses, lilies, baby’s breath. She pushed them aside gently and tucked me in, as if I was one of them. Then she looked at me one more time and said—

“I love you so much, Anak.” (I love you so much, my daughter) 

Then she shut the door.  I held the daisy tight in my hand, petals crumpling between my fingers.

From inside the cabinet, I could hear everything. Mama’s voice was steady, but I knew her heart was racing—I could feel it in the way she spoke.

"My husband isn't here. It's just me. Please…"

Then came a loud shout. A voice I didn’t know, deep and sharp like broken glass. And then—BANG!

A gunshot.

I gasped and covered my ears, pressing my head down into my knees. My whole body was shaking like a leaf in a storm. The smell of flowers wrapped around me, sweet and soft, but it didn’t help. Not this time.

Tears rolled down my cheeks like silent rain.

“Mommy…” I whispered, my voice too small to reach anyone. I wanted to scream for Daddy, for someone to make it stop. Where are you, Daddy? I thought. You said you'd always protect us. But now Mama was alone… and I was hiding like a scared mouse in the walls.

Then came more gunshots.

So many. I stopped counting after the third. They came like thunder, loud and sudden, until all that was left was silence—like the shop itself was holding its breath.

I heard footsteps—hard and fast—then the soft chime of the front door. It opened.

It closed. 

And then... nothing.

I waited.

Because Mama promised. “Mommy will come back, hm?” she said. So I stayed still, just like she told me. Even when the silence wrapped around me like nightfall. Even when the daisy fell from my fingers and hit the cabinet floor. 

The door creaked open, and even with my eyes closed, I knew it was him. I could hear his breathing—shaky, broken—like wind trying to hold itself together.

He stepped quietly, but his sadness filled the room louder than footsteps ever could.

The blanket brushed over me, gentle like waves tucking the shore in for the night. Then I felt the bed dip as he sat beside me. Still, I didn’t move.

I wasn’t asleep… but I didn’t want him to stop talking.

"I'm sorry," he whispered. His voice cracked like a branch under too much weight.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect your mom." Then I heard it. A sound I’d only heard once before—when we buried her. My father cried. Not the loud kind… but the quiet sobs that shake your ribs and steal your breath.

"I'm sorry I couldn't protect you from all of this…"

His hand hovered over me, like he wanted to touch my hair but wasn’t sure if he was allowed to. I stayed still. Not because I didn’t want him there… but because I didn’t know how to hold a man who used to be a mountain and now felt like a crumbling stone.

And in that silence between us, I realized something… he carried guilt like Grandpa carried pride—tight and heavy. I wished I could’ve said something. That I didn’t blame him. That I missed her too. That I was scared, but maybe we could be scared together. But all I did was lie there, eyes shut, holding my breath… hoping that maybe if I didn’t move, we could stay in that quiet moment a little longer. 

"I will make things right for you, Anak," he said. His lips touched my forehead in a kiss that felt like an apology and a vow wrapped together. Then he gently brushed the hair away from my face, the way Mom used to.

"Happy birthday," he whispered next, and I felt my throat tighten.

“Mahal na mahal ka namin” (We love you so much) Even though her voice was gone, I could almost hear her saying it with him.

And for the first time in what felt like forever… I believed it. 

But then morning came. And just like that… he was gone.

No note. No goodbye.

He vanished from my life like Mom did.

That made it worse somehow.

So I trained. I trained like fire looking for wood—hungry and wild.

His absence didn’t make me weaker.

And if he couldn’t be there to protect me—Then I would become the person who could. Even when I didn’t understand Grandpa’s cold stares and hard lessons…Even when his love felt like stone and steel instead of hugs and kind words…

I trusted him. Because he stayed.

Sweat clung to my skin like second armor as I stepped forward, fists raised. Grandpa stood across from me, tall and unmoving, his hands behind his back like he was carved from granite.

“Remember, Anastasia,” he said calmly, circling me like a predator testing for weakness. “Being weak is not in our vocabulary.”

I nodded, jaw clenched. The ache in my muscles from the morning drills still burned, but I swallowed it down. Pain was part of the lesson.

He raised his fists. “Begin.”

I lunged first, throwing a jab toward his side. He blocked it with ease, twisting away and countering with a hook that grazed my shoulder.

“You telegraph your punches,” he muttered. “Your enemies won't wait for you to fix your form.”

I reset. Breathed. Then I moved again. This time faster. Cleaner. His block missed, and I landed a palm strike against his ribs.

He grunted. Barely.

“Good. Again.”

We danced like that—me fighting with everything I had, him fighting with everything he knew. He struck, I blocked. I ducked, I countered. Until the world narrowed down to just rhythm and breath and grit.

Then—I saw the opening.

A split-second drop in his guard. I twisted into a full spin, planting my foot and sending a clean kick to his side. He stumbled back two steps, and for the first time, I saw it—

A flicker of pride in his eyes.

He straightened. Brushed off his sleeve.

I stood tall, heart pounding, fists still up.

He approached, this time not as an opponent—but as a mentor.

“I trained you,” he said, voice low but steady, “because I knew you could do better. Better than your father. Better than me.” He placed a firm hand on my shoulder. “This is your purpose. Not revenge. Not fear. But to make things right. Do you understand?”

I nodded, chest heaving. “Yes, sir.”

He studied me for a moment. “The world won’t care how much you cry. But it will kneel when it learns how hard you hit.”

He turned to walk away, then paused. “Next time, don’t wait for an opening. Make one.” 

I was twelve when Grandpa called me into his office.

The moment I stepped through the heavy oak door, I knew something was different. His desk was cleared, and behind him stood four kids—each one barely older than me, each one with eyes that had already seen too much.

They stood straight, shoulders squared, chins lifted like they were statues carved from discipline. And suddenly, I wasn’t just Anastasia anymore. I was being watched by strangers who might one day take a bullet for me—or expect me to take one for them.

Grandpa motioned for me to stand beside him.

“This,” he said firmly, “is the Alpha Unit. You are meeting your team.”

My heart thudded in my chest.

He turned to the first girl, her gaze sharp like the edge of a glass shard.

Sabina gave a tight nod. I noticed the scar on her wrist, thin and silvery. A reminder. A warning.

“Her code name is Dos. She will be your second-in-command.”

Then he gestured to the boy beside her. He looked calm—too calm, like still water hiding something beneath.

“Sebastian Madrigal, age thirteen. Rescued from a child trafficking ring in the Philippines when he was three. He’s quiet, but deadly in hand-to-hand combat.”

Sebastian bowed slightly, his knuckles bruised and bandaged.

“His code name will be Tres.”

Next was a boy a little taller than the rest. He wore glasses, but there was nothing soft about him. His gaze scanned me like a puzzle needing solving.

“Khalil Sivistico, fifteen. Member of the Sivistico Clan. He was kidnapped while we were stationed in Japan, recovered a year later through satellite triangulation. He specializes in data systems, encryption, and digital warfare.”

“His name is Kwatro.”

Then Grandpa turned to the last one—her presence made the room feel lighter.

“Fayre Sivistica, fourteen. She was taken by the Sivistico Clan and smuggled into China. Recovered shortly after Khalil. Their families were long-standing enemies.”

“She is deadly with long-range weapons and a master in field analysis. Her code name will be Singko.”

Then Grandpa turned to me. I didn’t move. I felt the weight of every stare in the room.

“And lastly… Anastasia Grey. Age twelve. Born of legacy, forged by loss. You’ve trained with me since before you could write your own name.”

He stepped closer. His voice was steady, but it felt heavier than usual.

“You will lead them. You will protect them. You will challenge them—and let them challenge you. Your code name is Uno.”

He looked straight into my eyes. No warmth. No doubt. Only command.

“This is your responsibility now. You are first. Not because you are the strongest—but because I trust you to carry them when they fall.”

I stood taller.

Saluted.

“Yes, sir,” I said, even as my heart pounded like a war drum in my chest.

And from that day forward, I wasn’t just a girl anymore. I was a leader.