Chapter 1

Looking back at my happiest memories feels like running fingers over old scars—some smooth and faded, others still raw. I once believed memories were like stars: distant, beautiful, untouchable. But I was wrong. Memories are bullets. Some just whistle past, leaving only echoes of fear. Others pierce clean through you, leaving you bleeding in silence.

“Condolence, Anastasia.”

“Anastasia, I’m so sorry for your loss.”

“I’m sorry, truly.”

I heard their voices all around me, but they sounded like a broken radio—faint, crackling, meaningless. I nodded out of habit, not because I understood. My eyes stayed glued to the casket, to the stillness that used to be my grandfather. My world felt like a glass vase tipped over in slow motion—falling, shattering, crumbling beneath the weight of my sorrow. “Anastasia? Can we talk for a moment?” Fayre sat beside me, her voice sounded soft but steady. I turned to her with empty eyes.

“Sure,” I replied, though I wasn’t really there. “Your grandfather wants you to be strong now more than ever,” she said, squeezing my hand. Her warmth felt foreign—like sunlight after a long, bitter winter.

It took effort to speak. My throat felt like it had been stitched shut with grief. “I’m trying,” I whispered, staring at the framed photo beside the casket. My chest ached—sharp and hollow—like something was missing... and it was. She looked at me with concern, then added softly, “There’s no witnesses,” “No one saw who shot him. The street was dark. No CCTV footage.”she continued with a sigh. I clenched my fists so tightly my nails dug into my palms. “Any update on the weapon?” “Still nothing,” she shook her head.

I close my eyes in disbelief but  when I close my eyes, I don’t see the present—I see reels of the past. I see him laughing. I hear his stern voice. I feel the warmth of his hug, the sting of his silence, the comfort of his presence. My childhood with him was a storm of discipline and love—loud, calm, chaotic, and safe. “What’s your plan, Uno?” That name snapped me out of the flood. And when I opened my eyes, I was back in the room. I hadn’t heard it in a year—not since leaving S.A.H. My old life still whispered through the cracks in my new one.

“Make them pay,” I said, cold as winter steel. Fayre saluted and I watched her turn, slow and silent, like a door closing gently behind her. She's Fayre Sivistica. Twenty-eight. The Singko of Alpha group. Her steps were steady, deliberate—And I just stood there, frozen in place, as if my feet had been poured into concrete. I couldn’t move. Not because I didn’t know how—but because something inside me refused to. My limbs felt heavy, useless. My chest was an empty room with all the windows shut. didn’t want to speak. I didn’t want to feel.

Who would kill my grandfather? The question loops like a broken record in my mind. It never stops spinning. “They’ll pay, Grandpa. Big time,” I muttered under my breath. I remembered the last day I saw him, training with weapons and laughter we didn’t usually share. It felt unusual then—but now I know. That day was his quiet goodbye.

After what felt like an eternity of staring at my grandfather's casket—at the stillness that used to be him—I finally turned my head. Faces blurred into view like ghosts surfacing through fog. Some were talking in hushed tones, filling the room with meaningless noise. Others weren’t saying anything at all, just watching me with eyes weighed down by pity, concern, confusion—emotions I didn’t ask for and couldn’t return.

And then I saw them.

The Alpha Group.

Lined up in perfect silence, their posture straight as stone. Eyes forward. Watching me. Beside them stood my grandfather’s personal bodyguard, face unreadable, but even his silence felt louder than the rest. The room responded to my movement like a ripple in water. The quiet chatter dissolved. Heads turned. All eyes now on me—as if the air itself had shifted. Like everyone was holding their breath, waiting for me to say something. Waiting for the granddaughter of Anton Virell to speak.

And somehow, in that moment, my legs found the strength to move. I walked past their stares like a ghost drifting through a crowd—seen, maybe, but unreachable. I didn’t look back.

Out in the parking lot, the sun clung to my skin like a memory I couldn’t shake. I slipped into the driver’s seat and turned the key. The engine roared to life, loud and shaky, like a heart beating too fast. I pressed the gas and let the wind blur the edges of everything behind me. It didn’t take long to reach his house—my grandfather’s house. But as I stood in front of it, something felt different. The place looked the same, but the feeling was gone. It wasn’t home anymore. It was just a building now, filled with echoes, dust, and everything left behind when a heartbeat stops.

The lights were dim. Shadows stretched across the floor like old memories that didn’t know where else to go. But the dark didn’t scare me—it felt like it matched what was inside me. Quiet. Heavy. Hollow. I climbed the stairs slowly, like my feet were made of stone. I reached my room and locked the door behind me. That soft click was the only sound I could control. I slipped into bed, pulling the covers up like armor. I didn’t want to sleep. I just wanted the voices in my mind—the what-ifs, the if-onlys, the echoes of his laugh—to hush. Just for a little while. Just one breath of silence.

At some point, sleep caught me in its arms. When I opened my eyes, light was stretching across my face like a new page being turned. Morning. Another day. Another reminder that grief doesn’t take a day off. I got up slowly. I washed my face. Got dressed like I was suiting up to face a storm again. Downstairs, I heard the faint clatter of plates and silverware—soft, careful sounds that still felt louder than they should, like tiny bells ringing through a cathedral of sadness.

The butler was at the table, setting it with quiet precision.

“Miss Anastasia... is that you?” he asked, without turning around.

I nodded, though the motion felt like I was dragging a whole season of sorrow behind me. I walked further in, but the house felt like it was holding its breath. The walls still knew my name, but they no longer offered comfort. The warmth had gone out with him

“You didn’t attend the funeral,” he said, finally facing me. His eyes were kind, but steady—like he’d been waiting to say that.I didn’t answer. I looked out the window instead. The sunlight was too bright, like it didn’t know someone was missing. It pressed into my eyes until they stung.

On my phone, unread messages blinked like tiny lighthouses I had no intention of sailing toward. Missed calls stacked up like unopened letters from a life I wasn’t ready to touch. I let them sit.

“There was a ceremony,” the butler said gently, “a lot of people came to the funeral—I know it’s hard for you.” He paused for a moment before continuing, “They gave your grandfather the Medal of Honor, for serving the country. I placed it on his desk upstairs.”

A part of me wanted to go see it. Another part felt like it would break if I did. Because medals are heavy—not just in weight, but in what they mean. And sometimes, when you’re grieving, even the smallest things can feel like mountains. I needed to move. To breathe. So I went out and walked. I crossed the street and kept going, not once turning around. I didn’t have a destination—just a heart full of noise and legs that wouldn’t stop. A soft breeze brushed past me, like spring itself was trying to remind me to feel something. Flowers bloomed beneath street lamps, bright and unaware.

I grew up here, in New Los Santos Liberty. Life was simple then. My mom ran a little flower shop, full of color and hope. My dad was an agent—always moving, always hiding things. When I was five, Mom died because of one of his missions. They said she was “collateral damage.” After that... he disappeared. Like morning fog that never returned.

“I knew I’d find you here,” a voice murmured behind me. I didn’t look.

My feet had brought me to the village park. I was on the swing, staring up at the sky like it could give me answers. From the corner of my eye, I saw him—Sam. He sat on the swing beside mine.“How are you?” he asked.I didn’t respond. The words were stuck somewhere between my chest and throat.

“People were asking about you,” he said quietly. “I told them you were on a mission.”

“You don’t have to say that, Sam.” I turned toward him, my voice flat.

He gave a small, broken smile. “I know. But they all expected you to be there.”

“It wouldn’t have changed anything,” I said. “He’s still gone.”

Sam’s expression hardened. “You’re my only family, Anastasia. It’s okay to be in pain. You don’t always have to be strong.”

I stood up, fists clenched. I didn’t answer. Just turned to leave.

“You always do this,” he called after me. “You turn your back and walk away. You don’t have to push us away.”

I froze. His words struck something deep. I breathed in slowly, then turned back to him.

“I can’t be weak, Sammy,” I said. “He’s dead. And he’s not coming back.” My chest ached. I left him there on the swing and I ran. I ran until the voices in my head were drowned by the wind. After a few minutes, I stopped near a tree with a long wooden bench beneath it. I sat down and leaned back, unsure where I was in the village anymore. Everything felt unfamiliar, like even the streets had changed without him.

I closed my eyes and thought of Sam. He’s my cousin—my uncle’s son. Like me, he was left behind. His parents walked out of his life just like mine did. Grandpa was the only one who stayed for both of us.

He needs me. He wants me beside him while he grieves. But I don’t know how to be that person. I was never taught how to comfort others. I don’t even know how to comfort myself.

That’s not how I was raised. That’s not how I was trained.

By the time I returned, the clock had struck midnight. The butler’s eyes filled with worry.

“Where have you been?” he asked. “I was worried.” I didn’t answer again. I walked up the stairs without a word. Not because I didn’t care, but because the pressure inside me was ready to burst. I was heading to my room when I caught sight of the door at the end of the hall—Grandpa’s office.

I stopped.

Something inside me shifted. My heartbeat picked up speed. I licked my lips, breathed deeply, and stepped toward the door. I turned the knob and opened it slowly.

The scent of roses met me first, strong and soft at the same time. The room hadn’t changed. Books stacked high, papers scattered on the desk, files neatly piled.

Then I saw it—on top of his cabinet.

A photograph.

It was him and me.

My hand shook as I picked it up. I stared at it, and the weight in my chest swelled.

“I’m so proud of you,” he had said that day. The last time we spoke. I closed my eyes, held the photo to my heart, and whispered,

“I will make sure they will pay, Grandpa.”