JOLT.
Loop 15. Ethan's eyes opened to the familiar pale light of morning filtering through the curtains. The phantom smell of neutralized muriatic acid and the faint memory of scrubbing the beaker clean lingered, overlaid instantly by the fresh, insidious aroma of coffee starting to brew. He was already moving before the last vestiges of the reset faded, swinging his legs out of bed, the practiced efficiency born of fourteen failures.
He swung out of bed, his movements driven by a cold, hard purpose that had replaced sleep. He bypassed the kitchen entirely, heading straight for the hallway closet to grab a worn jacket.
"Ethan?" Clara's voice came from the kitchen doorway, tinged with slight confusion. He hadn't even given her time for the morning greetings. He was already heading out. She followed him quickly, wiping her hands on a dish towel, her expression shifting from sleepy warmth to questioning concern. "Wait! Ethan, stop! Where are you rushing off to?"
He paused, hand hovering over the doorknob, but didn't turn fully. He could feel her presence behind him, radiating bewildered energy.
"You haven't had coffee. You're already dressed to leave? Did I forget something we planned? What's going on?" she asked, her voice laced with genuine confusion. This abruptness was completely out of character for their usual easygoing mornings.
He finally turned, forcing himself to meet her gaze. Her eyes were wide, searching his face for an explanation, for the familiar warmth that was chillingly absent today. The confusion was palpable.
"I can't talk now, Clara," he said, his voice flat, devoid of inflection, deliberately avoiding any comforting tone. "I have things I need to do. Important things."
"Important things? What things? Ethan, you're acting really strange this morning," she emphasized, trying to understand the sudden shift. "Did something happen overnight? A bad dream? You can tell me."
"It's complicated," he said curtly. "I'll explain later." The lie felt thin, brittle.
"When later?" she pressed gently, stepping closer, her brow furrowed with worry now, not just confusion. "Is everything okay? You seem… upset. Distant. Talk to me."
"No," he snapped, the word harsher than intended. He saw her recoil slightly, hurt flickering in her eyes. He needed to end this exchange. "Look, I just need space today. To sort things out. I'll call you." He turned back to the door, grabbing the knob decisively.
"Okay," she said softly, her voice small, clearly taken aback and wounded by his sharp tone and dismissal. "Okay, Ethan. If… if you need space." She didn't try to stop him further, just stood there looking lost and worried as he opened the door.
He stepped out without looking back, pulling the door shut on her bewildered, concerned face. The image pricked at him, but he shoved the guilt down. Focus.
He did his usual buying spree routine, to get all the materials.
Today, the riskier step required the relative stability and resources of the apartment, however compromised it felt. He arrived back around 1:00 PM, carrying the supplies in bags, letting himself into the silent apartment.
He pulled out his phone, the screen illuminating his expressionless face.
He typed, deleted, typed again, settling on something blunt, demanding, echoing the distance he'd already created:
"Clara. Need to focus today. Cannot be disturbed under any circumstances. Phone will be off. Can you stay out at a friends tonight?"
and with slightly gritted teeth, he clicked the send button.
He powered the phone off, silencing the inevitable worried response.
The utility closet became his makeshift lab again. Drop cloths meticulously taped down, creating a contained zone. Fire extinguisher placed just outside the door. Gloves pulled on. Goggles secured, pressing against his skin. Respirator mask clamped over his nose and mouth.
He arranged the chemicals with care: Acetone. Muriatic acid, capped tightly. Beakers. Measuring devices. The portable electric hotplate.
He began the concentration process as before, using the double boiler method. A small, measured amount of the clear, deceptively innocuous peroxide solution sat in the inner beaker, still and reflective under the bare bulb of the utility closet light. He positioned the thermometer carefully, its red line stark against the clear liquid. Water filled the outer saucepan, surrounding the beaker. He turned the hotplate dial to its lowest setting. A low, almost subliminal hum emanated from the heating element, a sound that seemed to vibrate up through the floor into his body.
He waited, his breathing deliberately slow and measured behind the respirator mask, trying to conserve calm. Minutes stretched. The water in the saucepan began to warm, a faint shimmer disturbing its surface before the first tiny bubbles appeared, clinging to the metal. The sound evolved from silence to a soft, intermittent plink... plink... as dissolved air escaped the heating water. Soon, it grew into a steady, gentle simmer, a soothing sound that belied the potential energy contained within the inner beaker.
The temperature of the peroxide crept upwards. 80 degrees Celsius… 85… He watched the liquid with unwavering intensity. At first, nothing changed. Then, tiny, champagne-like bubbles began to materialize within the peroxide itself, impossibly small points of light forming spontaneously in the liquid, not just clinging to the glass. They rose slowly, sporadically. Was it working? Or just dissolved gases? The line was terrifyingly fine. As the temperature nudged 88°C, the bubbling became slightly more consistent, a very faint, internal effervescence.
Then came the smell. Faint at first, almost imaginary, but gradually becoming distinct even through the mask's filters – a sharp, clean, almost electric tang, metallic and sterile, like the air after a nearby lightning strike. It wasn't unpleasant, exactly, but it was utterly alien, the signature scent of ozone accompanying peroxide decomposition. He knew it was a warning sign. He feathered the hotplate dial back a hair's breadth, his gloved fingers clumsy but precise.
His entire being was focused on the glass beaker, on the subtle signs of the ongoing reaction. The gentle bubbling of the water bath, the faint internal fizz of the peroxide, the sharp ozone scent – these were the only realities that mattered. The low hum of the hotplate filled his ears, drowning out the distant, irrelevant hum of the city beyond the apartment walls. He was so deep in this state of hyper-concentration, attuned to the micro-signals of his dangerous experiment, that the macro world ceased to register.
He didn't truly process the faint creak of a floorboard out in the hallway. He didn't identify the barely audible scuff, the soft sound of a shoe on the kitchen linoleum just beyond the closet doorway. His senses were tuned entirely inward, towards the potential chemical threat inches from his face.
He didn't hear the soft, sharp intake of breath directly behind him, a sound lost beneath the steady hiss of his own respiration within the mask and the bubbling of the water bath. It was the sound of someone seeing something unbelievable, shocking, terrifying – a sound that should have screamed danger.
But he heard none of it. He remained crouched, oblivious, his gaze fixed on the thermometer, praying the temperature held steady, unaware that the greatest immediate danger was no longer chemical.
Until the gasp.
"Ethan?!"
The sound, sharp and choked with shock, sliced through his concentration like a physical blow. He spun around violently, heart leaping into his throat, nearly knocking over the fire extinguisher in his panicked scramble. He ripped off the mask and goggles, the sudden rush of unfiltered, chemically-tainted air sharp in his lungs, his eyes wide and staring.
Clara stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, her hand clamped over her mouth, her face a mask of utter shock and disbelief. Her eyes darted from his face – pale, sweaty, marked by the pressure of the safety gear – to the scene behind him in the utility closet. The drop cloths. The array of chemical bottles, wires, and batteries. The bubbling beaker on the hotplate. The acrid chemical smell that had clearly permeated the kitchen despite his precautions.
The worry that had evidently driven her home was instantly vaporized, replaced by something far colder, far deeper. This wasn't the behaviour of someone stressed about work. This wasn't a man needing space. This looked… dangerous.
"Ethan..." she breathed, the name barely a whisper, trembling on her lips. She took a stumbling step backwards, away from him, away from the closet. Her eyes were wide with a fear that went beyond simple worry. "What... what in God's name are you doing?"
The question hung there, heavy and sharp, echoing in the suddenly suffocating silence of the kitchen. He was caught.