Broken Loop

Chapter Twenty-Two: Loop #10 - Carbon Monoxide

Midnight had settled like a stone in the sky when Aiden Hartman's apartment door clicked behind him. He carried his grandmother's flask of hot lemon–ginger tea, half hoping Jade would be curled on the sofa, reading, writing—anything but the silence that greeted him. Instead, the living room sat empty, echoing. The kitchen light was off; on the table, Jade's notebook lay face down, pen still uncapped. No sign she'd slept.

He set the flask down and checked his watch—ticking, inert from last night's ritual. His thumb hovered where the crystal once sparked with time's shifting power. He'd sworn no more loops, yet his pulse jerked at a flicker of panic.

In the hallway, footsteps whispered from the bedroom. He froze. "Jade?" he called, voice brittle. No answer.

He tried her door—locked. His pulse rattled the wood. She would have her key, or she'd be in the bathroom. He knocked. Still nothing.

He darted to the coat rack and found the carbines—keys gone. His heart lurch: she'd taken the car. He hurried to the foyer mirror—her face ghosted back in the glass. Wide, hollow eyes.

"Jade." His voice cracked.

Then the faint hiss: engine on, idling in the closed garage below.

He leapt down the stairs two at a time, flung open the basement door—and the air hit him: choke–thick, metallic. Couch cushions, cardboard boxes, the faint reminder of old damp, all tainted by exhaust's heavy perfume.

Her car sat at the far end, windows fogged and engine humming like a heartbeat that refused to die. The overhead door was down, sealing them in. He ran forward, boots slicing across concrete, and pounded the driver's window until knuckles smarted.

"Jade! Stop!" he shouted, voice swallowed by the engine's rumble.

Inside, she sat slumped over the steering wheel, long hair falling around her face in heavy strands. She turned, slow, her eyes distant. At her feet, the pedal lay pressed—too far, he saw the warped carpet mat.

He ripped the passenger door handle. Locked. He swore and circled the car, treacherous fumes wrapping around him.

He smashed his fist into the rear window—only a scattering of sparks at first. Then glass spidered, and he punched again. The shards bit his hand, but gravity did its work: the window splintered, fragments raining inside. He hauled his torso through the jagged hole, the smell of wet wool and burning metal filling his nostrils.

"Jade!" he rasped, collapsing beside her. She was gray around the lips, head lolling. His fingers searched her neck—pulse a slow tap-tap-tap beneath skin. He slammed the ignition off; lights died, leaving only the quiet hiss of residual fumes.

"Come on." He reached across, unbuckling her seatbelt. She didn't resist. He hauled her out of the car, muscles burning against her weight. She sagged into his arms. Tears carved tracks in his cheeks.

Her eyes flickered. "I'm... sorry," she whispered.

He pressed his lips to her temple. "I've got you." He half–carried, half–dragged her toward the stairwell. Fumes blurred his vision. He stumbled, lungs screaming. He had to clear this place—now.

He forced the stair door open—metal groaning. She slumped against the frame as he hauled her up. He shouted for neighbors, smacking at the heavy door, until light from above spilled in, and outside air rushed down the stairwell like blessing.

She coughed, sputtering, and he pressed her into his chest. "Breathe," he urged, body shaking with relief and fear. She gasped in shallow bursts, tears in her eyes.

He sank to the ground beside her as paramedics arrived—flashing lights, rubber hoses, voices pitched with urgency. He let them take over, standing back but never losing sight of her. She was alive.