Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Katya
The low hum of the plane’s engines filled the cabin, a steady reminder of how far I’d come—and how much further I still had to go.
My tray table sat empty, though Elena’s on my left was cluttered with a small paperback and the remnants of her in-flight meal.
She’d been reading for hours, completely absorbed in her book, while I stared at the seatback in front of me, willing myself not to unravel.
Anxiety roiled in my stomach. I didn’t know if I was developing an ulcer or if this was just the cost of survival.
Either way, the feeling had become familiar over the past few months.
I let out a slow breath and glanced at Elena.
She turned a page, her brown ponytail bobbing slightly.
When she spoke, her strong Italian accent was evident in every syllable.
It was charming in a way, though I often had to strain to understand her.
Not that it mattered much right now. We hadn’t exchanged more than a few words since boarding the plane.
The US government was supposed to fly me on a diplomatic plane.
That was the original plan, anyway. But plans involving me had a habit of falling apart at the last minute.
So here I was, crammed into coach on a commercial flight, flying across the Atlantic with Elena Rossi, a representative of the UNHCR, as my chaperone.
They assigned her to ensure my safety and guide me through the labyrinth of bureaucracy awaiting me in the United States.
Eventually, she set her book down and stretched, her small frame shifting in the cramped seat. I hesitated, then leaned closer and whispered, “What happens to me next?”
Elena turned to me with a grin. “When we land, UNHCR personnel will meet us. They will escort us through immigration and customs,” she murmured. “Then I will take you to a safe location in New York City. For now, I cannot say where, but it’s secure.”
Her smile widened as if to reassure me, but it did little to ease the gnawing unease in my chest. “Afterward,” she continued, “you will meet with a legal aid worker who specializes in asylum cases. Over the next few weeks, you will prepare for your interview. They will ask you many questions about your life, your experiences, your… convictions. If the authorities approve your asylum request, you can stay in the United States.”
I nodded, though her words did little to soothe me. “And if it isn’t approved?” I asked quietly.
Elena’s smile faltered for a moment, the corners of her mouth dipping slightly before she recovered. “The United Nations is made up of many nations,” she said, her tone careful. “Surely, one of them will help you.”
I turned to the window, the vast expanse of the Atlantic stretching endlessly below.
Clouds drifted lazily over the water, their edges glowing faintly in the moonlight.
I’d imagined this moment for so long—freedom, safety, a new start.
Yet now that it was here, all I felt was a tangled mess of excitement and despair.
I was stepping into the unknown, leaving behind everything I’d ever known. Everything I’d fought for.
My friends. My bandmates.
A lump formed in my throat as their faces flashed in my mind.
They’d risked so much for me, stood beside me when it would have been safer to walk away.
What was happening to them now? Had the government come after them because of my escape?
Were they safe? I’d had so little contact with the outside world since leaving that stage in Rome, and the not-knowing was unbearable.
I rested my forehead against the cool glass, staring down at the ocean far below. Somewhere beneath those waves, entire lifetimes were buried, forgotten. I’d left behind a life that could never be recovered, and in doing so, I’d dragged others into danger. Was it worth it?
I closed my eyes and sighed. Freedom came with a price—I knew that. But I’d never imagined how steep it would be. And now, hurtling through the sky toward an uncertain future, I couldn’t stop the question that gnawed at the edges of my mind.
Had I done the right thing?
Elena switched off the overhead light and tucked herself into her jacket, her head nodding forward as sleep claimed her.
I envied how easily she could find peace in this tin can hurtling through the sky.
My body felt like a taut wire, every muscle tense, my mind bouncing from one horrible thought to another.
I’d heard the rumors for years. Enemies of Putin dying mysteriously.
Poison slipped into tea, nerve agents sprayed in crowded streets.
Sergei Skripal and his daughter Yulia—poisoned on a park bench in broad daylight in London.
If they could get to a former spy on foreign soil, what chance did I have?
The Russian government denied everything, of course, dismissing the whole thing as anti-Russian hysteria.
But the whispers, the pieces of the puzzle I’d picked up during my travels—they painted a chilling picture.
Would I be sipping coffee in a New York café one day and suddenly collapse? Would I ever feel safe again, or would I spend the rest of my life glancing over my shoulder, suspicious of every stranger, every drink, every shadow?
I looked down at my hands, clenched so tightly my knuckles were white. The plane hit a pocket of turbulence, and my heart skipped a beat. This wasn’t how it was supposed to feel, was it? Freedom was supposed to taste sweet, not bitter.
And what about my music? My chest tightened at the thought.
For years, it had been my salvation, my way of making sense of a senseless world.
Would I ever return to it? Would I even want to?
Music had always been my connection to people, my way of creating something bigger than myself.
But could I still do that here, in a country where I was just another refugee?
At least I had some money. I wasn’t destitute, thanks to the accounts I’d quietly opened in other countries during my concert tours.
Russia had probably frozen every ruble I had back home by now, but at least I wouldn’t starve.
Financially, I’d be fine. But money didn’t buy safety, and it sure as hell didn’t buy peace of mind.
The ocean stretched endlessly below us, dark and unforgiving, mirroring my thoughts. Jesus, maybe I hadn’t thought this through enough. Running had been the right decision—I had to believe that—but the consequences loomed larger with every passing mile.
I glanced at Elena, her peaceful face tilted to the side, a lock of hair falling loose from her ponytail.
Did she know what she’d signed up for when she agreed to help me?
Did she understand the danger? God, I hoped so.
Because I couldn’t bear the thought of someone else paying the price for my choices.
I squeezed my eyes shut and leaned my head against the cool window.
The hum of the engines filled my ears, a white noise that didn’t quiet the chaos inside me.
No matter how much I tried to convince myself otherwise, the doubts crept in.
I’d done the right thing, hadn’t I? Speaking out, running, seeking asylum—it was the only choice I could live with.
Wasn’t it?
A voice pierced the haze of my restless sleep.
“Ladies and gentlemen, please fasten your seatbelts. We’ll be landing at La Guardia shortly.”
I blinked awake, disoriented, my neck stiff from the awkward angle I’d been sleeping in.
The cabin lights were dim, but sunlight peeked through the window beside me.
Elena was already awake, her hands folded neatly in her lap, watching the sunrise paint the clouds in hues of orange and pink.
She noticed me stirring and gave me a tiny smile.
“We’re almost there,” she murmured.
I turned toward the window, trying to ground myself in the beauty outside. The Atlantic stretched below us, the shoreline now visible in the distance. My stomach churned—not from turbulence, but from the gnawing anxiety that had become my constant companion.
When the plane touched down with a jolt, I instinctively gripped the armrests. As we taxied to the gate, Elena leaned toward me. “When we stop, stay in your seat. Don’t move until I say.”
I furrowed my brow, her words cutting through the fog in my mind. “Why?”
Her expression didn’t falter. “Just trust me.”
The plane came to a halt, and the usual flurry of activity began—seatbelts unbuckling, bags being pulled from overhead bins, passengers lining up in the aisle.
I stayed put, watching as everyone else filed out.
My palms felt clammy against the leather armrests, my heartbeat quickening with each passing moment.
Then they came. A group of men and women in black suits, accompanied by uniformed officers, marched onto the plane.
Their faces were unreadable, their movements precise.
My pulse quickened. Elena leaned in closer and whispered, “Department of Homeland Security. Airport security. NYPD. They’re here for your safety. ”
My safety. Right. The thought brought little comfort as the narrow aisle suddenly filled with their imposing presence. One officer, a tall man with a closely cropped beard, stepped forward and nodded at Elena. “You’re clear to disembark.”
Elena motioned for me to stand, and I did, but the sheer number of people around me made the air feel heavy.
Their closeness was suffocating, even though none of them touched me.
I’d been in crowds before—on stage, in airports, surrounded by fans—but this was different.
These people weren’t here to adore me; they were here to shield me. From what, exactly, I wasn’t sure.
I had no luggage. No belongings. Just me, walking down the narrow aisle like I was heading to the gallows.
When we stepped into the terminal, I barely had time to register the sterile brightness of the airport before chaos erupted. Cameras flashed, voices shouted, footsteps pounded toward us.
“Ekaterina! Why did you flee Russia?”
“Are you seeking asylum in the United States?”
“Ekatarina! Over here!”
The questions blended into a cacophony as the security team moved into action, forming a wall around me and Elena.
But one man broke through—a photographer with a camera that looked like it belonged in a war zone.
He shoved it inches from my face; the flash blinding me as he snapped shot after shot.
“Katya, look this way!” he shouted, his voice cutting through the noise. Katya was my nickname, and my stage name. But I didn’t have a career in the United States. How did they know it? And how did they even know I would be here?
I recoiled, but before I could react, a firm hand guided me forward. The security detail closed ranks, ushering me away from the frenzy. I kept my head down, my chest heaving, the flashes still seared into my vision.
The photographer’s voice faded behind us as we moved swiftly through the terminal. I clenched my jaw, forcing myself to breathe. This wasn’t what I’d expected. Not this chaos, not this invasion. I’d wanted freedom, a chance to breathe, but this felt like another kind of cage.
As we approached an unmarked door, Elena placed a hand on my arm. “You’re safe,” she breathed, her voice almost lost in the noise.
I nodded, though I wasn’t sure I believed her.