"Good. Fear keeps you sharp. It's overconfidence that gets you killed."
We sit in silence for a few minutes, the blueprints spread before us, the weight of tomorrow pressing down like a physical thing.
"Two more days," I whisper.
"Two more days. Then we end this."
At 11:00 PM, we finally go to bed.
Not to sleep—neither of us can, really. But to rest. To hold each other. To find whatever peace we can before the final countdown.
He pulls me against his chest, his hand tracing patterns on my back. No names tonight. Just abstract designs, soothing and repetitive.
"After Sunday," he says quietly, "we launch the foundation. Honor all seven women. Save the ones who come after."
I want his certainty. I try to borrow it, let it seep into me through our joined bodies and synchronized breathing.
But I know what Anton is capable of. I've lived with the evidence in my shattered ankle for five years.
Sunday night, I’ll face him on stage, in his trap, playing his broken ballerina one last time.
And I'm terrified I won't be good enough to save Natasha, save Maksim, save myself.
"I love you," I whisper into the darkness.
"I love you too," he responds immediately. "That's why we're both coming back Sunday. That's not negotiable."
I fall asleep holding onto that promise like a lifeline.
SATURDAY
I wake at 6:00 AM to an empty bed. Find Maksim in his study already, reviewing tactical updates from overnight surveillance teams.
"Anything changed?" I ask.
"Thermal signature still shows two heat sources in the Starr Theater rehearsal space. No movement in or out of the building overnight. Anton's holding position." He looks up. "How'd you sleep?"
"Badly. You?"
"Same."
We have coffee in silence, both knowing today is the final preparation day. Tomorrow night, everything will happen.
I spend most of Saturday in the third-floor studio, not dancing but preparing mentally. Visualizing the stage at Juilliard. Anton's likely positioning—center stage, controlling the space like a director. Where he'll want me to stand—downstage, in the light, visible and vulnerable.
How to keep his attention while the rescue happens half a block away in a different building.
Maksim watches from the doorway, his usual position. But today he's not working on his laptop. Just watching me pace, visualize, prepare.
"You're shifting modes," he observes around 2:00 PM.
"What do you mean?"
"From warrior to performer. I can see it in how you're moving, thinking. You're not planning combat anymore—you're planning a performance."
He's right. The past two weeks, I've been training to fight, to survive, to be dangerous. But tomorrow night, I need to be something else.
At least on the surface.
