La Organización is an organization which is created in rpw in Facebook. A group of teenagers and adults that created a strong bond together. RPW stands for Roleplaying world means you're not allowed to expose your true identity. You'll be using a fake name and a random picture of a person. This organization started as an arena official. They all decided to create a group chat where they are using their real names and real identity. After so many years of being online friends they all decided to do a meet up. What will happen to them in the near future? Let's find out! And let's get to know the organization member. Started: August 28, 2025 Ended:

LA ORGANIZACÍON 1 At 19, Jamaica Faith Xands had nothing left. Orphaned at ten. Raised by her grandmother. Then the pandemic took her last family, her jobs, and the house they lived in. Alone, grieving, and broke, she escaped into Facebook-where under fake names, she built La Organización, a secret web of identities no one could trace. Then came the knock. A woman in black handed her a sealed envelope. "Hiraya Building. 10PM. Shaft. Bring everything important. Don't be late." Inside: no name, no logo. Just coordinates. And a question: "Do you want to disappear-or be reborn?" Jamaica went. Underground, she was tested. Watched. Recruited. By the Red Organization-a covert force that handles missions too deadly for police, army, or law. She passed. Now, Jamaica is Echo-9. A ghost operative trained in infiltration, surveillance, and silent kills. Her past erased. Her purpose reborn. And when asked why she joined, she says: "I already knew how to disappear. They taught me how to matter." Started: August 28, 2025 Ended:

LA ORGANIZACÍON 2 At just 18, Jared Anizar was already being groomed for office. His family name was a legacy-spoken in senate halls, etched into school plaques, printed on every invitation that arrived at their estate. His cousins were councilors. His aunt, a senator. His father, a former cabinet minister who spoke in soundbites even at breakfast. But Jared didn't want to lead rallies. He wanted to listen to heartbeats. He kept his dream folded inside his biology textbooks, hidden beneath the speeches he was forced to memorize. At night, while his family debated policy in the living room, Jared watched surgical procedures on mute, tracing the lines of the human body with quiet reverence. Then came the gala. It was supposed to be his debut-his first public appearance as "the next Anizar." His suit was tailored. His speech, ghostwritten. His name, printed in gold on the program. But halfway through the event, Jared slipped out the back door. He walked for hours, ending up at a small clinic near the edge of town. The lights were still on. Inside, a nurse was tending to a child with a broken arm. Jared watched through the glass, heart aching with clarity. That night, he made a decision. He would apply to med school in secret. He would work part-time at the clinic. He would become the kind of Anizar no one expected. He didn't tell his father. He didn't tell anyone. But every time he passed the family portraits in the hallway, he whispered to himself: "Not a politician. Not this time." STATUS : PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 3 At 17, Joyce Alua left home for love. She believed in promises then-in whispered plans, in the way his hand fit perfectly in hers. When she found out she was pregnant, she didn't hesitate. She packed her things, followed him, and built a fragile world around hope. But hope cracked. He left. For her best friend. The betrayal was sharp, but the silence that followed was worse. Alone, grieving, Joyce lost the baby. She didn't scream. She didn't beg. She simply sat in the dark, hand on her stomach, whispering apologies to a child who never got to breathe. That night, she made a vow. No more chasing love. No more waiting to be saved. She found work in a small café, then in a clothing stall, then in a logistics firm. She learned fast-how to read people, how to negotiate, how to spot a lie before it landed. She saved every peso. She stopped explaining herself. By 21, she had her own online store. By 24, she had a warehouse. By 26, she was signing contracts with suppliers who once ignored her emails. People started calling her "Ma'am Joyce." Her name appeared in business magazines. Her old classmates whispered about her success. Even her family, once disappointed, now bragged about her grit. But Joyce didn't care for applause. She cared for quiet mornings, for the hum of her office printer, for the way her employees smiled when payday came. She cared for the version of herself who once cried alone in a rented room-and who chose, against all odds, to rise. Every night, she looked in the mirror and said: "I take care of me now." And this time, it wasn't armor. It was power. STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 4 At 22, Angellica Flores should've been celebrating. She had just graduated-top of her class, the first in her family to earn a college degree. Her parents cried during the ceremony. Her siblings clapped the loudest. Her name was called, and for a moment, everything felt like it was falling into place. But beneath her gown, she was already showing. She had kept the pregnancy quiet, not out of shame, but out of fear. The boy who promised forever had vanished the moment she told him. No calls. No messages. Just silence. So she walked across the stage alone, diploma in one hand, a child growing inside her. Her family didn't turn away. Her mother helped her set up prenatal appointments. Her father built a crib from scrap wood. Her siblings took turns reading baby books aloud, laughing at the awkward diagrams. When her son was born, Angellica held him close and whispered: "You're not a mistake. You're my beginning." She didn't chase the boy. She didn't ask why. Instead, she started small-selling handmade baby items online, using her business degree to track inventory and build a brand. Orders trickled in. Then flooded. She expanded. Hired staff. Opened a storefront. By 27, she was running a full-scale baby goods company, known for its warmth, quality, and story. Her son, now five, sometimes sat in her office coloring beside her desk. Her parents still visited every Sunday, bringing food and folding laundry like nothing had changed. Angellica would look at her boy, then at the business she built, and whisper: "We did it, anak. We're okay." And this time, she didn't just mean survival. She meant joy. STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 5 Annie Shey Monio was named by her parents. She never met them. They died in a car accident when she was just a baby, leaving behind a birth certificate and a name written in careful script. That name-Annie Shey-was all she had of them. No photos. No stories. Law school was brutal. She worked nights at a diner, studied in bathrooms between shifts, and kept her birth certificate in her wallet-a reminder of the name her parents gave her, the only proof they ever existed. She passed the bar on her first try. Now, at 28, Annie is a practicing lawyer with her own firm. She specializes in child advocacy, fighting for those who grow up unheard. Her office is modest, but her voice is sharp. Judges listen. Clients trust her. Opponents respect her. She visits the orphanage every December, bringing books and warm meals. The children call her "Ate Annie," and she always kneels to meet their eyes. One day, a little girl asked, "Did your parents love you?" Annie smiled, touched the girl's cheek, and said: "They gave me my name. That was the first gift. I've carried it every day since." STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 6 Veatrice Mante was trained to pose before she could spell her name. Her mother was a runway legend-gracing billboards, magazine covers, and fashion weeks across continents. People called her "The Silhouette," a woman who could command silence with a single glance. Veatrice grew up backstage, surrounded by lights, fabrics, and the scent of hairspray. At five, she learned posture. At seven, she learned how to walk in heels. By ten, she knew how to smile without showing nerves. Her mother was her coach, her mirror, her fiercest critic. "Elegance is discipline," she'd say, adjusting Veatrice's shoulders before a shoot. "You don't just wear beauty-you become it." Veatrice didn't resist. Not at first. She loved the thrill of transformation, the way a camera could freeze a moment and make it eternal. But as she grew older, she began to wonder: was she chasing her mother's shadow, or building her own light? At 16, she walked her first runway. At 18, she signed with a major agency. But behind the glamour, Veatrice was studying-business, branding, psychology. She wanted to understand the machine behind the image. She wanted to own it. By 25, she launched her own modeling academy. Not just for the beautiful-but for the brave. For girls who didn't fit the mold. For boys who were told they couldn't. For anyone who wanted to speak through movement, not just mimic it. Her mother attended the opening, dressed in black, eyes glistening. "You didn't follow my footsteps," she whispered. "You built your own runway." Veatrice smiled, adjusted her posture, and said: "I learned from the best." STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 7 Angie Tolme grew up watching her father's name unravel. He was once a trusted accountant-precise, honest, the kind of man who double-checked receipts and taught Angie how to balance coins in a jar. But one day, everything collapsed. A scandal broke out at his firm. Money went missing. Fingers pointed. Her father was framed. He didn't fight back. He didn't have the power or the lawyers. Just a daughter who watched him lose everything-his job, his reputation, the way neighbors used to greet him with warmth. Angie was only ten, but she remembered the silence. She remembered how he still packed her lunch, still helped with math homework, still smiled even when the world stopped believing in him. By fifteen, she had made a decision. She would become a CPA. Not just to prove something-but to protect something. Integrity. Precision. Justice. She studied harder than anyone else in her class. While others crammed for exams, Angie dissected case studies. She interned at firms where whispers of corruption lingered, always watching, always learning. At 22, she passed the board exam. At 25, she opened her own accounting firm-small, clean, built on transparency. Her first client was a struggling bakery. Her second, a single mother trying to fix her books. She didn't chase prestige. She chased fairness. Her father, now retired, visits her office sometimes. He brings coffee. He straightens the picture frames. He never asks for credit. But Angie keeps a framed photo of him on her desk-smiling, holding her as a baby, before the world turned cruel. Every time she signs a report, she whispers: "This one's for you, Papa. No lies. No shortcuts." And the numbers always add up. STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 8 John Michael Xing grew up in the hum of ledgers and late-night calls. His father-a sharp-eyed businessman with roots in Fujian and a heart planted in Manila-ran a trading company from their modest home office. Deals were made over rice dinners. Contracts were printed beside schoolbooks. John learned early that success didn't wear a suit-it wore persistence. He was half Chinese, half Filipino. Two cultures braided into one boy who spoke three languages and understood silence better than most. His mother had left when he was young. No drama. Just distance. His father never spoke ill of her. He just worked harder. By ten, John was helping sort receipts. By thirteen, he was shadowing meetings. By sixteen, he could read profit margins like poetry. He didn't rebel. He didn't dream of escaping. He simply watched, absorbed, and followed. Not out of pressure-but out of quiet admiration. His father never asked him to take over. But John did anyway. At 22, he launched his own logistics startup. It wasn't flashy. It wasn't loud. But it was efficient, honest, and built on the same principles his father lived by: never overpromise, always deliver, and treat every handshake like a contract. Now, at 28, John Michael Xing runs a multi-branch enterprise across Luzon and Visayas. His father still visits the office sometimes-never to interfere, just to sit in the corner and smile when John speaks fluent Mandarin to suppliers or switches to Tagalog for local clients. One day, a young intern asked, "Sir John, did you always want this?" John paused, looked at the framed photo of his father on his desk, and said: "I didn't chase it. I inherited the rhythm." And the rhythm never failed him. STATUS: PENDING

LA ORGANIZACÍON 9 Chelsea Amore Deogracia was the only girl in a family of legacy. Half Spanish, half Filipino, her name carried weight across continents. Her family was renowned-landowners, diplomats, businessmen. When threats loomed over her safety as a child, her parents made a quiet decision: her mother would take her to the Philippines, far from the spotlight, to raise her in the safety of the ancestral hacienda. Chelsea didn't grow up hidden. She went to school like any other girl-uniform pressed, notebooks filled, quietly guarded from a distance. Her classmates knew her as kind and brilliant. Few understood why a driver always waited outside the gate. She grew up watching her mother manage the land with grace and grit-negotiating with suppliers, settling disputes, walking the fields in boots and pearls. Chelsea absorbed it all. At 18, the threats faded. Her father brought her back to Spain. The estate was vast. Her brothers had been raised there, groomed for power. Chelsea stepped in-not as decoration, but as destiny. She studied agriculture, diplomacy, and business. She walked the land with quiet command, speaking three languages with ease. Now, at 25, Chelsea runs the hacienda with quiet power. Her name opens doors, but her presence commands respect. She visits the Philippines every year, bringing aid to the communities near her childhood home. One day, a guest asked, "Do you ever feel out of place among your brothers?" Chelsea smiled and said: "They were raised for legacy. I was raised for survival. I carry both." STATUS: PENDING