They called her Anya, erasing her real name, giving her one they thought was better. It would make her one of them, a perfect fit for their mold.

Only the younger girls were allowed to call her that. To everyone else, she was убийца—ubiytsa—the assassin. They trained her harder than the other girls her age. She was to be the first in their series of weapons: a master marksman, deadly in hand-to-hand combat, skilled in espionage, and able to complete missions within hours—no witnesses.

Every day after training, she was taken to a secluded room where none of the other girls could see. There, they tested her, preparing her for a serum that would change everything. She would become stronger, faster, her senses amplified tenfold. It wasn't a perfect experiment—stolen plans from the Americans—but they made it work. They made her work.

Anya's body grew stronger, faster. She advanced beyond the other girls at the academy, outlasting them in every sparring match. Her stamina was unmatched, her opponents collapsing from exhaustion. She picked up 15 languages—most of them European—mastering English and Russian. In addition to the brutal training, they added ballet, instilling poise and grace into their assassins, making them as elegant as they were deadly.

This was only a glimpse of the manipulation that the Red Room girls endured. It was a constant struggle to survive, a relentless battle to stay on top. The Soviet program had made it that way: kill or be killed. And the girls believed them.

Belarus, Soviet Union, 1935

In a room full of blonde ballerinas, one stood out. Her dark brown hair was pulled into a tight bun, bobby pins digging into her scalp. She was taller, her muscles more defined. She could hold her pointe for longer, her toes bleeding more. As the girls moved in sync, Anya held her posture, her face blank.

A knock interrupted their lesson. The music stopped abruptly, and the ballerinas snapped into first position. One of Madame B's assistants, a girl no older than twelve, crossed the room to the instructor.

"Madame B has requested to see Anya," the girl announced.

"Assassin, you are excused," the instructor said coldly, pointing toward the door. Anya lowered her head and followed the assistant to Madame B's office. The headmistress had recently taken over the Red Room, and rumor had it she was evaluating every girl's performance.

The narrow hallways stretched on as Anya walked. Most girls who were summoned to Madame B's office never came back. Anya had been taught to fear nothing but Hydra, not even death.

She reached the heavy walnut door, the brass nameplate reading "Headmistress." Knocking twice, she waited for Madame B's voice.

"Enter."

Anya stepped inside, waiting silently by the door.

"Hello, Anya. Please, take a seat," Madame B gestured to a chair. Anya sat quickly, careful not to upset her. Madame B circled the room like a predator, her movements slow, calculated. Anya kept her eyes on her ballet shoes, knowing she was not allowed to make eye contact unless instructed.

"Do you know why I called you here?" Madame B asked.

"Net, madam," Anya replied, hands trembling. She had an idea of why she was there, though.

"I believe you are ready, Anya," Madame B said, flipping through her file.

"Gotovy k chemu, madam?" (Ready for what, madame?)

"The ceremony, of course. Your stats have been remarkable, and the doctors are seeing great changes in you. You're going to be the greatest. You will serve Hydra after this, but you'll remain at the academy."

Anya had only heard rumors of the ceremony from the other girls. She was scared, though she didn't dare show it.

"Why?"

"Stupid girl," Madame B spat. "This is not a choice. You will serve Hydra with pride. If you don't, Hydra will erase you." She leaned forward. "Do you understand?"

Anya forced a smirk, masking the fear rising in her chest. "Yes, Headmistress. When do I begin?"

Madame B's lips curled into a smile. "Right now, darling." She waved her hand, and two guards along with a doctor stormed into the room. They sedated Anya within seconds, and she was wheeled off to the operating room.

The operation had lasted only twenty minutes when Anya woke up. The pain was excruciating, but she didn't flinch. She was immune to it now, the serum making her stronger, more resilient.

When it was over, her abdomen was stitched, and she lay in her room, cuffed to the bed as always. Her first mission for Hydra was in one day, and she had to recover quickly.

The next day, Anya unlocked her handcuffs, her wrists raw from movement in her sleep. The surgery had left her sore, but it didn't matter. Her mission awaited: eliminate a married couple who had betrayed Hydra. No witnesses.

At the end of her bed, a pile of clothes waited for her. Black cargo pants, a short-sleeved shirt, combat boots, and a bulletproof vest. A black jacket bearing Hydra's emblem lay on top, which she admired most. Three holsters and two pocket knives were neatly arranged beside it.

Anya struggled to change into her mission gear, her body still sore from the operation. She knew what had been done to her—what had been taken from her. That last shred of humanity every girl held onto had been stripped away, surgically removed. They told her it would only get in the way during missions, that emotions interfered with performance. She believed them because she had no choice.

Once dressed, with her hair braided tightly, Madame B entered the sleeping quarters, followed by four guards.

"Guten Morgen, Anya. Bist du bereit für deine Mission?" (Good morning, Anya. Are you ready for your mission?)

"Wann fahren wir?" Anya asked, slightly caught off guard by Madame B's change in language. The girls were required to know multiple languages, but the instructors always spoke in Russian. (When are we going?)

"In un paio di minuti," Madame B replied, her mouth set in a thin line. Another language change. She was testing Anya's skills. (In a couple of minutes.)

"De ce mă testezi, doamnă?" Anya responded coolly, catching onto the game and twisting it to her advantage, just as Madame B had trained her to do. (Why do you test me, madame?)

"Vous partez dans 5 minutes. Dépêchez-vous et récupérez vos armes," Madame B said, turning sharply on her heel and walking away. (You leave in 5 minutes. Hurry up and get your weapons.)

Anya rolled her eyes as she followed, gathering her weapons from the rack: two Colt 1911 pistols, both black with a small white Hydra symbol on the barrel, two knives, and an SVT-40 sniper rifle, which she slung over her shoulder.

After pulling her mask over her face, she headed outside, where five guards waited by a truck, her small tactical team. As she walked past them, one of the guards stepped up behind her and slapped her hard on the backside.

At first, she didn't react. She wasn't sure how to. But when the rest of them started laughing, something inside her snapped.

In a flash, she grabbed the offending guard's arm and twisted it behind his back, pulling it nearly out of its socket. She kicked his legs out from under him and stomped on his ankle. He let out a cry of pain, while the others stood frozen, unsure of what to do. None of them wanted to be humiliated by a 15-year-old girl.

"You think you're tough?" she hissed, her voice low and lethal. "You're not. You're just a coward with a gun. Do that again, and I'll make sure you never see your family again." Her blade pressed lightly against his throat.

He nodded quickly, fear filling his eyes. Anya let him go, turning her back on him without another word.

She climbed into the back of the truck, checking her weapons. The rest of the guards followed, the tension palpable. No one dared speak as the truck rumbled to life and began its journey.

They drove for hours before finally stopping at the edge of the woods. Anya jumped out and immediately set to work, her sniper rifle in hand.

"This is an easy shot," she said, scanning the area for a good vantage point. "Won't take more than thirty minutes. Secure the perimeter in case anything goes wrong."

The guards nodded and spread out, while Anya found a moss-covered rock. The hotel where her targets were staying was close to the forest, but far enough that they wouldn't spot her.

She positioned herself on the rock, steadying her rifle. Her first target was the woman. Anya knew this woman's history—she had once been part of the Red Room. The man was weak; if Anya killed him first, the woman could complicate things.

She focused her crosshairs on the woman's head, her finger resting on the trigger. In one fluid motion, she fired.

The woman crumpled to the floor, the large window behind her shattering into a million pieces. Blood splattered the walls. The man inside scrambled, his face contorted with horror.

Anya reloaded, took aim, and pulled the trigger again.

Gone.

Both targets were dead. No more leaks, no more traitors.

She stood up, pulling down her mask, her face void of any emotion.

She was a killer. She killed because she had to. She didn't care.

She was a soldier.

Word count: 1,532

A/N: woah, revamping soldier? love it, hope you guys love it too!!!

💙FANOFADIFISHMAN💙