JOLT.
Ethan gasped awake, the echo of Clara's final, surprised cry as she tumbled down the subway steps still ringing in his ears. He sat up sharply in bed, clutching his head, the transition smoother this time, less disorienting, but infinitely more dreadful. Loop Three had failed. Changing the cause hadn't changed the outcome. The bank clock's impassive numerals burned behind his eyelids: 5:17 PM.
He looked around the sunlit bedroom. Familiar. Safe. Utterly deceptive. The aroma of coffee, already brewing, drifted from the kitchen – Clara, alive, oblivious, trapped in the opening act of a tragedy doomed to repeat. A wave of cold despair washed over him, so profound it felt like drowning. He had prevented the hit-and-run, the original accident as he remembered it, only for fate, or whatever malignant force was orchestrating this, to casually substitute a flight of stairs. The chilling precision, the unwavering adherence to that specific minute… it wasn't just bad luck. It wasn't just coincidence. It was a rule. A fixed point in time he seemed powerless to alter.
He dragged himself out of bed, his limbs heavy with a weariness that sleep couldn't touch. As he entered the kitchen, seeing Clara humming by the counter, the usual morning greeting died on his lips. How many times would he have to live this? How many different ways would he have to watch her die before this cycle broke, or before he broke completely?
"Morning," she said, turning with her customary smile, though it faltered slightly as she registered his expression. "Whoa, rough night? You look like you wrestled a bear."
"Something like that," Ethan mumbled, forcing himself to take the offered mug of coffee. His mind was already racing, discarding the hypothesis from Loop Three. Replicating the original day hadn't worked. Intervention at the crucial moment hadn't worked. The time was the constant. 5:17 PM. The killer wasn't a speeding car or a faulty step or a sudden allergy; it was the clock itself hitting that specific minute.
So, the new strategy had to be avoidance on a macro scale. Forget the specific intersection, forget the original scenario. The goal now was to ensure that when 5:17 PM rolled around, Clara was somewhere utterly disconnected from previous death locations, engaged in something completely mundane, surrounded by safety, or even better, surrounded by him. No subways, no dangerous crosswalks, maybe not even leaving the apartment after a certain point? But Loop Two proved the apartment wasn't safe either.
Maybe the key was to be somewhere completely different, at a completely different time relative to their usual schedule? He needed to break the pattern entirely. New routes, new timings, new locations. Flood the 'system' with so much variance that the 5:17 PM convergence couldn't occur. It felt like throwing darts in the dark, but it was better than walking her back to that fatal intersection or locking her in the apartment that had already become a death trap.
He spent the morning formulating Plan B: Maximum Deviation. He needed to control their schedule from the outset.
"Clara," he began, trying to sound casual as they finished breakfast, the familiar scrambled eggs tasting like ash in his mouth. "I was thinking… this Thompson meeting today is probably going to be a quick one. And honestly, the thought of staying cooped up in the office all afternoon feels… draining."
She raised an eyebrow. "Planning another early escape?"
"Sort of," he admitted. "What if we both play hooky this afternoon? I mean, really cut out early. Like, right after lunch. We could go to the botanical gardens? Or walk along the river path on the West Side? Somewhere totally different, get some air?" He kept his tone light, hopeful. The botanical gardens were miles uptown, nowhere near the downtown intersection or their apartment. The river path was open, public, but peaceful.
Clara looked tempted. "Skip out after lunch? That's bold, even for you. What about Finch?"
"Finch can wait," Ethan insisted, perhaps too forcefully. "Tell them you have a sudden migraine. You looked genuinely tired earlier anyway. Please, Clara? It feels like we need it." The desperation bled into his voice despite his best efforts.
She studied him for a moment, seeming to weigh his unusual intensity against the allure of escaping Finch. "Okay," she finally agreed. "Okay, you talked me into it. Botanical gardens it is. But if Howard fires you or Finch demands my head on a platter tomorrow, I'm blaming your sudden need for 'air'."
Ethan could have wept with relief. This was progress. A completely different plan, a different location, moving well before the critical time window.
The morning crawled by. Ethan barely registered his actual work, his mind focused on the afternoon's logistics. He called Clara shortly after noon. "Operation Hooky is a go?"
"Migraine successfully deployed," she confirmed, lowering her voice conspiratorially. "Finch is displeased but powerless. Meet me at the main library steps in thirty? We can grab a quick sandwich nearby then head uptown?"
"Perfect."
They met under the stone lions guarding the library entrance, the bustling midtown location feeling safer, more anonymous than their usual haunts. They grabbed sandwiches from a deli, eating quickly on a bench, watching the city flow around them. Ethan felt a flicker of genuine hope. This felt different. Disconnected from the doomed timelines of the previous loops.
They took the subway uptown – a necessary evil, but miles away from her station, and well before the fatal hour. They arrived at the botanical gardens just after 2:00 PM. Spring was tentatively asserting itself; early blooms added splashes of colour to the sprawling grounds. They wandered through themed gardens, inhaled the earthy scent of the conservatory, and sat by a peaceful pond watching ducks glide across the water. For almost three hours, Ethan allowed himself to relax, just fractionally. Clara seemed happy, genuinely enjoying the unexpected escape, her earlier concerns about his mood seemingly forgotten amidst the tranquil beauty. He kept her close, his arm often around her shoulders, steering her gently away from overly steep paths or large, overhanging tree limbs, his paranoia a low hum beneath the surface.
As 4:30 PM approached, then 5:00 PM, Ethan's vigilance ramped up. He scanned their surroundings constantly. They were in a relatively open area now, a wide lawn dotted with ancient, majestic trees, heading slowly back towards the main entrance. Other visitors ambled nearby, enjoying the late afternoon sun. What could possibly happen here?
5:10 PM. Ethan subtly guided Clara towards a large oak tree, suggesting they sit on the bench beneath it for a few more minutes before leaving. Safer near the trunk, perhaps? Less exposed?
5:15 PM. He checked his watch again. His heart rate kicked up. Just two more minutes. They were sitting quietly, Clara leaning her head on his shoulder. He scanned the branches above them. Solid-looking oak. No ominous creaking. No sign of weakness.
5:16 PM. A squirrel chased another squirrel up the trunk of their tree, chattering indignantly. A child laughed somewhere nearby. Normal sounds. Normal sights.
Then, with a sound like a giant cracking whip, utterly disproportionate to any visible cause, a massive limb high above them – thick as a man's torso, seemingly perfectly healthy moments before – snapped cleanly from the trunk.
Ethan heard the crack split the air and reacted instinctively, shoving Clara sideways off the bench, trying to roll clear himself. But there was no time. The sheer size and weight of the falling branch filled the world. He saw a terrifying confusion of leaves and splintered wood rushing down.
A heavy, crushing impact struck his shoulder and side, knocking the wind out of him, the pain blinding. He heard Clara cry out, a sharp sound abruptly cut off. Then blackness took him for a moment.
When his vision cleared, he was lying on the grass, agony radiating from his shoulder that was fully crushed, his arm limp. He pushed himself up frantically. The massive branch lay across the bench and the ground where they had been sitting, crushing the wood, gouging the earth. And beneath the thickest part of the limb… he saw Clara's legs. The rest of her was hidden, horrifically pinned.
"Clara!" he screamed, scrambling towards her, ignoring the fire in his shoulder. He tried to lift the branch with his single arm, straining with all his might, but it was impossibly heavy, immovable. He could see her face now, partially obscured, pale and still. There was no breath. No movement.
A park ranger came running, alerted by the sound, his face paling as he took in the scene. He spoke urgently into his radio. Ethan looked at his watch through tear-blurred eyes, his hand shaking uncontrollably.
5:17 PM.
Help was called, same process as the first time...
Reset.
Ethan gasped awake in bed. Loop Five. Sunlight. Coffee smell. He didn't scream this time. A cold, hard knot of despair lodged itself in his chest, too deep for tears. Avoidance didn't work. Safety didn't exist. It found her anyway.
He went through the motions of the morning robotically. This time, his plan was different. Keep her close, but not isolated. Keep her somewhere secure, busy, public, but controlled. His office building. State-of-the-art security, corporate environment, miles away from the intersection, miles away from the botanical gardens.
He fabricated a story about needing her design eye on a presentation mock-up, persuading her to come to his office building after lunch. She agreed, slightly confused but willing. He met her in the lobby, kept her with him through the afternoon, pretending to work on the 'presentation' in a spare conference room. He watched the clock like a hawk.
5:10 PM. He suggested they head down to the lobby, call a taxi from there to go home. Avoid the streets at the critical moment. Safer inside the secure lobby.
5:15 PM. They stood near the polished granite entrance, waiting for the taxi he'd summoned via an app. Large windows overlooked the bustling street, but they were inside, surrounded by security personnel, removed from the sidewalk chaos. He positioned himself slightly in front of her, a useless human shield.
5:16 PM. He heard distant sirens, unrelated. Watched the traffic flow. Scanned the pedestrians on the sidewalk outside.
5:17 PM. A sharp crack echoed through the cavernous lobby – louder than a car backfiring. Not from outside. From above. Simultaneously, a high-pitched whine, like ricocheting metal.
Ethan instinctively flinched. Clara gasped beside him. A small, jagged piece of metal, impossibly, inexplicably, hit the marble floor near their feet, skittering away. Confused, Ethan looked around. What was that?
Then he saw Clara sway. A dark, blossoming stain appeared high on her chest, near her collarbone. Her eyes went wide with shock and disbelief. She reached a hand towards the stain, her fingers coming away red. She looked at her hand, then at Ethan, her mouth opening, but no sound came out. Then her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed onto the gleaming floor.
Chaos erupted. Security guards converged. People screamed. Ethan dropped beside her, seeing the small, terrible puncture wound. A ricochet? From where? How? Later, piecing together the scattered reports amid his own shock, he'd learn the impossible truth: A police incident involving gunfire several blocks away, on a rooftop, had resulted in a stray bullet travelling an improbable distance, striking the steel beam framework high above his building's entrance facade, and ricocheting downwards through the glass entryway at just the right freakish angle to find Clara standing in the lobby.
Reset.
Ethan woke up. Loop Six. The despair was now a physical weight, crushing the air from his lungs. He couldn't breathe. Couldn't think. He lay there, staring at the ceiling, listening to Clara moving around in the kitchen, the familiar sounds mocking him. Avoidance failed. Controlled environments failed. The universe wasn't just letting her die; it felt like it was actively targeting her, bending probability and physics to ensure her demise at that exact moment.
He almost didn't get out of bed. What was the point? But the image of her smile, the echo of her laugh, forced him upright. One more try. Change the timing completely. Not early, but late. Keep them apart, maybe he is the reason she dies, submerge her in normalcy until well after the fatal minute had passed.
He endured the day. He insisted, via strained phone calls, that they both had to work exceptionally late on critical deadlines. He pushed their Valenti's plan back to 8:30 PM. He made excuses, ignored Clara's frustrated sighs, forced himself to concentrate on work, keeping meticulous track of her location via brief, tense text messages. She was at her office, chained to her desk, dealing with Finch's eleventh-hour panic. Safe. Miles away. Working.
He stayed glued to his own desk, surrounded by colleagues, pretending to finalize reports. He watched the clock.
5:10 PM. He texted Clara: "Still okay? Surviving?" Reply: "Buried. Send chocolate. 😩"
5:15 PM. He stared at his computer screen, pretending to read, his leg jiggling uncontrollably.
5:16 PM. His phone buzzed. Another text from Clara? No, a news alert notification.
5:17 PM. He forced himself not to look at the clock. He focused on his screen, trying to breathe normally. It passed. 5:18 PM. 5:19 PM. A tentative, fragile hope began to dawn. Keeping her occupied, miles away, surrounded by normalcy… had it worked?
Then his office phone rang. It was Clara's boss, her voice strained, panicked. "Ethan? There's… there's been a fire. Here. Started in the server room, tenth floor. It spread incredibly fast. Clara… she was working late… the fire department is here, but… they haven't been able to reach her section yet…"
Ethan dropped the receiver, the world dissolving into a silent scream. The tenth floor. Clara's floor. The server room adjacent to her team's workspace. A fire. Starting just moments before, spreading with impossible speed. At 5:17 PM.
He didn't need to wait for confirmation. He knew. He closed his eyes, the darkness behind them offering no escape. It didn't matter where she was, or what she was doing. The deadline was absolute. The outcome was fixed. Dread, cold and complete, settled into his soul. He wasn't just failing to save her; he was trapped in a horror show where he was forced to watch the inevitable unfold, again and again and again.