Possession
Maksim
The helicopter touches down at 4:10 PM on the Mount Sinai helipad. I'm moving before the rotors fully stop, Sergei behind me, hospital security already waiting with clearances I arranged mid-flight.
"ICU, third floor," the security guard says, leading us through corridors that all look the same. White walls, fluorescent lights, the smell of antiseptic. I've never been comfortable in hospitals—the sterility, the beeping machines, the way they smell like death disguised as healing.
Not again.
The thought loops through my head with every step.
Dr. Sarah Murayama meets us outside the ICU. She's young—too young to be dealing with Soviet-era poisons—but her eyes are steady, competent.
"Mr. Petrov. Ms. Morozova is stable but critical. The poison in her system is consistent with compounds used by Soviet intelligence agencies—designed for maximum suffering, slow deterioration."
"Will she live?" The question comes out rougher than intended.
"The next twelve hours are critical. We've administered counteragents, but her body needs time to process. She's unconscious, which is actually protective right now. Her system is fighting." Dr. Murayama's expression softens slightly. "You can see her. Room 347."
The ICU is quiet. Machines beeping, nurses moving with practiced efficiency. Room 347 is at the end of the hall.
I stop in the doorway.
Sonya looks impossibly small in the hospital bed. Tubes and wires connect her to machines monitoring every breath, every heartbeat. Her dark hair spreads across the pillow. Her face is too pale, lips slightly parted around the breathing tube.
She looks impossibly fragile. Too pale, too still, surrounded by machines monitoring every breath. The last time I saw someone I loved this vulnerable, she was dying on our bedroom floor while I held her and failed to save her.
No.
I force myself to move. To enter the room. To sit in the chair beside her bed.
Her hand is cool when I take it. Delicate bones, dancer's fingers, the hand that traced patterns on my back three nights ago while I was inside her.
I start tracing without thinking.
S-O-N-Y-A on her palm. On her wrist. On her forearm where the IV connects.
"Don't you dare leave me," I whisper in Russian. "Don't you dare die and let him get away."
The machines beep steadily. She doesn't respond.
I trace her name on the bed rail. On the wall beside her. On my own thigh when I run out of surfaces.
Sunday evening bleeds into night.
Sergei brings updates—Anton spotted near Lincoln Center again, underground access points mapped, teams positioned—but the words barely register.
Nurses come and go. Check vitals, adjust medications, speak in hushed tones about poison levels and organ function and prognosis. I ignore them all. Just keep tracing, keep holding her hand, keep her tethered to this world through sheer force of will.
Around 8 PM, I start praying.
I haven't prayed since Elena's funeral. Haven't spoken to God in fifteen years because what kind of god lets pregnant women die? But here, in this hospital room with another ballerina fighting for her life, I pray in Russian—the old prayers my grandmother taught me, the ones I thought I'd forgotten.
"Gospodi pomiluy," I murmur.Lord have mercy. "Keep her here. Keep her alive. I'll do anything. Give anything. Just don't take her."
The machines continue their steady rhythm. Her chest rises and falls with mechanical precision.
I trace her name on her hand and pray.
