Chapter 1: My Birthday; Their Deathday.

The snow fell in heavy sheets outside the windows of the mansion, dusting everything in a blanket of white. Inside, it was warm and cheerful. Anya Mikhailova stood before the mirror, carefully adjusting the ribbon in her long, dark hair. Today was her sixteenth birthday, and she had been waiting for this day for months. Her father, Viktor, had promised it would be special, and she believed him.

"Anya, come down!" her mother's voice echoed from the bottom of the stairs. "Your father is ready to make the toast!"

Anya smiled at her reflection, brushing a stray lock of hair behind her ear. She was excited, yes, but there was also a feeling of unease that gnawed at her gut.

She left the room and made her way down the grand staircase, the heavy chandelier above casting soft light across the marble floors. The guests were already gathered in the dining room, the laughter and music almost drowning out the knot in her stomach.

Her father stood at the head of the table, holding a crystal glass of champagne, his dark suit impeccable, his face stern but proud. Beside him, her mother smiled, her hand resting gently on his arm.

"Anya!" Viktor said, his voice booming across the room. "Come, my daughter. Let us begin the celebration."

She smiled and took her place next to her parents. As her father lifted his glass, the room fell silent.

"To my beautiful daughter, Anya," he began, his voice rich and deep. "May your heart be as strong as the legacy you come from, and may you find the strength to lead when the time comes."

The words felt heavy, like an unspoken burden, but Anya shook it off. This was supposed to be a happy occasion. As she raised her glass, ready to clink it with her parents', a sharp knock echoed from the front door.

Her father's face darkened in an instant. "Stay here," he ordered his wife and daughter before striding quickly to the door.

Minutes passed, the quiet tension in the air thickening with each second. Anya exchanged a look with her mother, but before she could speak, the door opened with a violent swing, and two men, dressed in black, stepped inside.

One of them was tall, with cold, calculating eyes. The other was shorter, with a sharp, jagged scar running across his cheek.

"Viktor Mikhailov," the tall man said, his voice devoid of emotion. "We have come for you."

Anya's heart pounded. Her father's jaw tightened as he stared at the men. Without a word, he reached into his jacket and pulled out a small, ornate gun, the grip engraved with the same symbol that had adorned their family crest for generations—the dragon. The men looked at each other before the taller one spoke again.

"You cannot stop what is coming," he said, his tone unyielding.

Before Viktor could respond, a gunshot rang out, and Anya's world shattered.

Her father collapsed to the floor in a heap, his blood staining the marble beneath him. Her mother screamed, rushing to his side, but it was too late.

"Run, Anya!" her mother cried, her eyes wide with terror. "RUN!"

But before Anya could