The air twisted.
James felt it before he saw it—pressure folding inward, like the room was being squeezed through a narrowing frame. The walls seemed closer. The ceiling lower. Ada stood perfectly still at the center of it all, calm in a way that terrified him more than her screams ever had.
"Ada," James said carefully. "What do you mean, it's your turn to decide?"
She didn't answer right away.
Instead, she walked past him, her footsteps soundless against the floor, and picked up his notebook from the table.
James's heart lurched. "Don't—"
Too late.
She flipped through the pages.
Rules.
Times.
Deaths.
Corrections.
Her eyes moved faster than they should have, absorbing everything.
"So this is how you keep track," she said softly. "I always wondered."
James took a step closer. "That notebook isn't complete."
She smiled faintly. "Neither are you."
She turned another page.
Her smile faded.
"Oh," she whispered.
James's throat tightened. "What?"
She looked up at him.
"This part," she said, tapping the page. "You crossed it out."
James followed her finger.
Iteration 6: Do not hesitate.
He remembered that night.
The hesitation.
The calculation.
The moment he waited to see what would happen.
Ada closed the notebook slowly.
"You let me die," she said.
"I didn't mean to," James said quickly. "I was trying to—"
"To learn," she finished. "To see if the loop would correct itself without you."
His silence answered for him.
Ada exhaled, long and controlled. "That's the one. That's the death I remember most clearly."
James's voice broke. "I thought if I understood it, I could stop it."
"And did you?" she asked.
"No."
"Then you failed," she said simply.
The words landed like a verdict.
The apartment lights flickered again.
Not randomly.
In sequence.
On.
Off.
On.
James felt his ears pop, like he was moving through altitude too quickly.
"Ada," he said, panic creeping into his voice. "Whatever you're doing—stop."
She shook her head. "I'm not doing anything."
She placed a hand over her chest.
"I'm just… not resisting."
The pressure intensified.
James staggered, catching himself on the counter. The floor rippled beneath his feet, not visually, but perceptually—like his balance no longer trusted the space he stood on.
"You were wrong about one thing," Ada continued. "The loop doesn't exist to punish me."
James looked up at her. "Then why does it exist?"
"To test you."
The words hollowed him out.
She stepped closer, her presence heavy, almost gravitational.
"Every loop gives you the same choice," she said. "Save me immediately… or try to save everything."
James shook his head. "That's not fair."
Ada's eyes softened for the first time. "Neither is being loved by someone who keeps choosing later."
The city outside screamed.
Sirens howled, but they sounded wrong—stretched, layered, overlapping with echoes that hadn't happened yet.
James felt dizzy.
"This isn't a loop anymore," he whispered.
"No," Ada agreed. "It's a judgment."
The clock on the wall cracked.
A thin line split the glass, running straight through the center.
James stared at it. "Time is breaking."
Ada nodded. "Because it's tired of repeating the same mistake."
She reached out and touched his face.
Her hand was warm.
Real.
"I don't hate you," she said quietly. "Not yet."
James closed his eyes. "Then please—don't do this."
She leaned closer, her forehead resting against his.
"I've already lived through what happens when I don't."
His breath hitched. "What happens?"
She whispered, "You keep trying."
The pressure peaked.
James dropped to his knees.
Memories flooded his mind—scenes he had never lived, choices he had never made, deaths he had never witnessed.
Except… he had.
Just not this time.
He gasped.
"You've failed before," Ada said above him. "More times than you remember."
James looked up at her, eyes wide.
"I remember now," he whispered.
Her eyes widened slightly. "Oh."
He saw it—another version of himself, standing still while she reached out. Another where he turned away. Another where he chose the city burning in the distance over the girl bleeding in his arms.
Tears streamed down his face.
"I always thought I was trying to save you," he said. "But I was really trying to prove I wasn't the kind of man who would choose only one person."
Ada pulled her hand back.
"And that's why you keep losing me."
The room fell silent.
No sirens.
No hum.
No ticking.
James pushed himself to his feet. "Then tell me what to do."
Ada met his gaze.
"Choose," she said.
The floor cracked beneath them, hairline fractures spreading like veins.
"Right now," she continued. "No calculations. No future loops."
James's heart thundered.
Her voice was steady.
"Me," she said,
"or the world."
The question settled.
Heavy.
Final.
James opened his mouth—
And the world held its breath.