And he still got away.
"We saved Natasha," Sonya whispers against my chest. "At least we saved her."
"We saved Natasha," I agree. "That's the victory."
But the words are hollow. Anton is out there, free and dangerous and still obsessed.
And his words about pregnancy echo in my mind.
By midnight, the theater is secured. TheFBI processes the scene—photographing evidence, collecting the weapons Anton placed,documenting his elaborate stage setup, dismantling the video equipment. Chicago forces patrol the perimeter. The medical team has taken Natasha to Mount Sinai for observation.
I'm with Sonya near the ambulance as a paramedic wraps her swollen ankle, her phone rings.
She fumbles for it with shaking hands. "Natasha?"
I can hear the voice on the other end, groggy but alive: "Sonya? They said—you came for me."
"Always." Tears stream down Sonya's face. "You're safe now. We're both safe."
"He—he kept saying you'd come. That you'd dance for him. That—" Natasha's voice fades slightly. "I'm so tired."
"Rest. I'll see you at the hospital soon. Just rest."
The call ends. Sonya lowers the phone, staring at it like it's a lifeline.
"She's okay," she whispers. "She's really okay."
"She is. Mariana's team saved her."
By 12:30 AM, we're alone near the theater entrance. The FBI is still processing inside. My security is maintaining the perimeter.The Halloween night is quiet except for distant sirens and the hum of the city.
Sonya looks up at me from where I'm supporting her weight, keeping pressure off the injured ankle.
"What did he mean?" she asks quietly. "Pregnant?"
"I don't know."
But her hand moves unconsciously to her stomach, and I wonder.
Could it be true? Could Anton—obsessed with dancers' bodies, watching, studying, knowing them better than they know themselves—have seen something we missed?
Or is it one final cruelty from a monster who escaped into the night?
"We should get you to medical," I say. "Have them check your ankle, run blood work—"
"Blood work." She understands what I'm not saying. "To check if he was right."
"Only if you want to know."
She's quiet for a long moment, the Halloween night pressing in around us.
"I want to know," she says finally. "Whatever the truth is, I want to know."
I help her into the waiting ambulance—not emergency transport, just precautionary evaluation. She'll ride to Mount Sinai, where Natasha is already being treated. They'll check her ankle and run the blood work, to give us answers.
As the ambulance pulls away, I stand in the Halloween night, staring at the Lincoln Center complex where Anton disappeared into the tunnels.
We survived tonight. We saved Natasha.
