The computer screen went dark, but the disturbing images and cold calculations from his hours of research remained vivid in his mind – fracture types, ER protocols, the terrifyingly fine line between controlled injury and accidental fatality. It was a monstrous plan, born of rage and utter desperation, but it was the only path forward that didn't feel like passive complicity in Clara's endless execution.
He glanced at the clock. 4:21 PM. Waiting until tomorrow, letting this loop conclude with another unknown, arbitrary death while he possessed this terrible potential strategy… it felt cowardly. Unacceptable. His anger, cold and sharp, demanded action now. If he was going to cross this moral line, he would do it immediately, trying to spare her at least one more senseless end. He needed to get her outside, near help, and execute this before the looming 5:17 PM deadline.
He picked up his phone, his hand surprisingly steady, fueled by grim resolve. He scrolled to Clara's number and pressed call. She answered on the second ring, her voice wary.
"Ethan? Everything okay?"
"Yeah," he lied, forcing a lightness into his tone that felt utterly alien. "Listen, I finished my big push on this work thing sooner than expected. And… I feel awful about how I was this morning, about ditching you today. Really stressed and out of line." He paused, taking a breath. "Can I make it up to you? I know it's last minute, but maybe… meet me downstairs in like, twenty minutes? We could take a quick walk around the block, clear our heads, maybe grab some fancy takeout instead of Valenti's tonight?" He needed a simple premise, something close by, maximizing the time before the deadline.
There was a suspicious silence on the other end. "A walk? Now? Ethan, are you sure you're okay? You sounded… really off earlier."
"I know," he said quickly, injecting false sincerity. "That's why I want to apologize in person. Feeling much clearer now. Please, Clara? Ten minutes, quick walk, then indulgent food?"
He heard her sigh. She was worried, likely still confused by his behavior, but the offer of an apology and connection seemed to win out. "Okay, Ethan. Okay. Twenty minutes, downstairs by the main entrance."
"Great. See you soon." He hung up, a cold sweat breaking out on his forehead despite the calculated calm he projected. He quickly changed out of the clothes he'd been lounging in, pulling on jeans and a jacket, his movements jerky, mechanical. He grabbed his keys and wallet, took several deep, unsteady breaths, and headed out, leaving the wreckage of his research behind.
He met her downstairs precisely twenty minutes later. She approached him cautiously, her eyes searching his face for clues to his erratic behavior. He offered her a tight, forced smile. "Hey. Sorry again about earlier."
"It's okay," she said, though she didn't sound entirely convinced. "Walk?"
"Walk," he confirmed, offering her his arm. She hesitated for only a fraction of a second before taking it, the familiar warmth and slight pressure doing little to soothe the frantic pounding in his chest.
He steered them away from their usual routes, choosing a bustling side street he vaguely remembered having uneven pavement and being relatively well-lit – plausible for a stumble, populated enough for witnesses and quick emergency response. He kept up a stream of deliberately banal chatter, apologizing again for his stress, asking about her day, complimenting her outfit – anything to maintain a facade of normalcy while his mind raced, planning the precise moment, the precise location. The moral calculus felt like grinding glass shards in his gut. He was walking beside the woman he loved, holding her arm, planning how to best break her leg.
The clock ticked internally. 4:55 PM. They walked a couple of blocks, Ethan subtly guiding their path. He pointed out a new shop window, gestured towards a dog walker, forcing interaction, forcing closeness, while scanning the pavement ahead for the perfect spot.
5:00 PM. There. A section of sidewalk where tree roots had pushed up the concrete slabs, creating a slight but definite lip. It was near a bus stop with a few people waiting. Perfect. His heart hammered against his ribs so hard he felt dizzy. Two minutes. It had to be now.
"Oh, look at that bookstore display," he said, abruptly changing direction, pretending to be drawn towards a shop window slightly ahead and to their right. This required Clara to adjust her footing, bringing her path directly over the uneven slab he'd targeted.
As she stepped forward, bringing her weight onto the raised edge, Ethan executed the horrific, calculated maneuver. He "stumbled," his foot "accidentally" nudging hers outwards just as she was planting her weight, while simultaneously giving her arm linked through his a subtle but firm jerk off balance.
It worked exactly as intended, and the result was sickeningly immediate.
Clara cried out, a sharp sound of surprise and then instant, raw pain. Her ankle buckled completely beneath her, robbed of support and pushed sideways by his 'stumble'. She went down hard, collapsing onto the concrete with a horrible crumpling sound, landing heavily on her side and leg.
"Oh my god! Clara!" Ethan feigned shock, kneeling beside her instantly, his voice laced with fake panic that felt terrifyingly close to the real thing boiling inside him.
Clara gasped, tears instantly springing to her eyes, her face contorted in agony. "My leg! Ethan, my leg! I think… I think it's broken!" Her voice was thin, strained with pain and shock.
People at the bus stop surged forward, voices rising in concern. "What happened?" "Did you see her fall?" "Someone call 911!"
Ethan frantically pulled out his own phone, already dialing, shouting their location and "Bad fall! Possible broken leg! Severe pain!" He looked down at Clara's leg, bent at an unnatural angle below the knee. It looked… successful. A clear, undeniable break, tibia or fibula or both. Horrible, painful, but survivable. Help was being called within seconds. They were blocks from a major hospital. This could work. He felt a twisted surge of relief mixed with profound self-loathing.
Paramedics arrived with remarkable speed, their sirens audible almost immediately. They quickly assessed Clara, their faces grim but professional as they noted the obvious deformity of her lower leg. They administered pain relief, carefully splinted the limb, and skillfully transferred her onto a gurney. Clara was conscious, though pale and trembling with pain and shock, occasionally whimpering Ethan's name. He stayed right beside her, holding her hand.
They loaded her into the ambulance. Ethan started to climb in beside her. One of the paramedics checked his watch as he relayed information over the radio. "Transporting now. ETA five minutes. Time is…" He paused, glanced at his watch again. "Seventeen seventeen."
5:17 PM.
Ethan froze on the step of the ambulance, the hairs on the back of his neck prickling. No. It couldn't be. She was injured, yes, but stable. Help was here. They were literally moments from the hospital. This was supposed to be the loophole.
As if cued by the paramedic's words, Clara's breathing hitched sharply. Her eyes, which had been squeezed shut against the pain, flew open, wide with sudden, inexplicable terror. She gasped, her hand spasming in Ethan's grip.
"What's happening?" the paramedic beside her barked, instantly checking the monitor leads they'd already attached. "BP is crashing! Saturation dropping!"
Clara clawed weakly at her chest, her breath coming in shallow, frantic rasps. Her face, already pale, took on a deathly grey pallor.
"Possible PE!" the other paramedic shouted from the front, likely hearing the stats over the internal radio. "From the fracture! Get the oxygen maxed! Starting compressions!"
Fat embolism. A known, but relatively rare, complication of long bone fractures where fat globules enter the bloodstream and travel to the lungs or heart. Rare, but not impossible. And happening now. Exactly now.
The inside of the ambulance erupted into controlled chaos. CPR started. Medications were administered. Urgent calls were made to the receiving hospital. Ethan was pushed roughly aside, finding himself stumbling back onto the sidewalk, watching through the open ambulance doors as the team fought desperately, futilely, to save her.
He saw the lead paramedic check the monitor again after a few frantic minutes, then shake his head grimly at his partner. The frantic movements ceased. A terrible stillness fell inside the ambulance, contrasting sharply with the flashing lights and the surrounding city noise.
The paramedic turned, his face etched with exhaustion and regret, and looked at Ethan standing dumbstruck on the sidewalk. He didn't need to say the words. Ethan knew.
The carefully staged broken leg, the controlled injury designed to bypass the loop's fatality clause, had triggered a one-in-a-million complication. A fatal pulmonary embolism. Occurring precisely as the clock struck 5:17 PM.
His plan hadn't just failed; it had backfired with lethal, horrifying precision. He hadn't controlled the outcome; he had merely provided the loop with a new, cruelly ironic weapon. Direct physical manipulation was not the answer. It was just another invitation for the universe to demonstrate its power, its malice, its absolute control over the final, fatal minute.
He stood there, shaking, as they closed the ambulance doors, the reflection of the flashing lights dancing in his blank eyes. He felt nothing. Not anger, not grief, not even despair. Just a vast, cold emptiness. He had tried to play God, and the real God, or devil, or whatever ran this cursed show, had slapped him down with contemptuous ease. The lesson was learned. But the price, as always, was Clara.