The spray of the shower was hot, almost scalding, but Ethan barely registered the temperature. He leaned his forehead against the cool, damp tile, letting the water sluice over his shoulders, washing away the lingering tendrils of sleep but doing little to clear the mental fog induced by the impending 'graphite essence' debate. He could still hear Clara humming faintly from the bedroom as she got dressed, a sound so intrinsically linked with mornings in their apartment that its absence would have felt like a structural failure.
He showered quickly, the motions automatic: soap, rinse, repeat. Toweling off, he caught his reflection in the steam-fogged mirror. Just Ethan. Slightly tired around the eyes, hair already beginning its usual unruly rebellion against gravity. Nothing remarkable. Nothing to suggest the day held anything other than conference calls, blueprint revisions, and the pleasant anticipation of dinner at Valenti's.
Dressed in his usual work attire – crisp shirt, comfortable slacks – he found Clara in the living room, meticulously checking the contents of her shoulder bag. She looked sharp, professional, wearing a charcoal grey sheath dress that ironically made him think of his client meeting.
"Ready to face the world?" she asked, zipping the bag shut with a decisive flick of her wrist.
"As I'll ever be," he sighed, grabbing his own briefcase and keys from the small table by the door. "Try not to let Finch redesign the entire Harrison project logo again while I'm gone." Finch was her notoriously fickle client.
She gave him a look that managed to be both amused and long-suffering. "If he suggests adding another gradient, I might actually throw my laptop out the window. Don't tempt me." She stepped close, straightening his collar unnecessarily, a small gesture of affection he cherished. "Walk me to the subway?"
"Always."
They left the apartment together, the familiar clicks of locks engaging behind them. The hallway smelled faintly of lemons from Mrs. Henderson's enthusiastic cleaning efforts next door. Down in the elevator, they stood side-by-side, a comfortable silence between them, watching the floor numbers descend. It was the easy quiet of people who knew each other so well that words often weren't necessary.
Out on the street, the morning air was cool but held the promise of a warmer afternoon. The city bustled around them – the rhythmic hiss of a street cleaner, the impatient honking of taxis, the general hum of eight million lives starting their day. They walked the three blocks to Clara's subway station at an easy pace, their shoulders occasionally brushing.
"So, Valenti's tonight," Clara confirmed as they approached the station entrance, dodging a hurried messenger on a bike. "Seven-thirty?"
"Perfect," Ethan said. "I should be wrapped up by six-thirty, latest. I can meet you here, or just head straight to the restaurant?"
"Meet me back here," she decided. "We can walk over together. Gives us time to properly decompress from our respective days of enduring client eccentricities."
"Sounds like a plan." He leaned down and kissed her, a brief but meaningful connection amidst the surrounding rush. "Have a good day. Try not to incite any logo-related riots."
"You too. May your grey tones be perfectly balanced," she quipped, then gave him a quick, radiant smile before disappearing down the steps into the tiled depths of the subway station.
Ethan watched her go for a moment, a familiar fondness settling over him, before turning and heading towards his own office building several blocks away.
The workday unfolded with predictable mundanity. The meeting with Thompson and the Palmerston lobby committee stretched into an agonizing ninety minutes, largely centered around the subtle, almost imperceptible differences between seven proposed shades of grey paint. Ethan managed to steer them towards 'graphite essence' (a minor victory he mentally credited to Clara's earlier prediction), endured a condescending lecture on Feng Shui from Mrs. Palmerston, and escaped just before noon feeling like he'd aged several years.
Lunch was a hasty sandwich scarfed down at his desk while reviewing structural reports for a new condo development. His afternoon involved a tense conference call with a contractor disputing material specifications, but thankfully, it ended surprisingly quickly with an unexpected concession from the contractor's side. Glancing at the clock, it was only 4:15 PM. He still had the rooftop terrace refinements to work on, but the bulk of the urgent tasks felt suddenly, blessedly complete. Maybe he could actually get out a bit early today. A rare treat.
He exchanged brief emails with Clara – a shared groan about Finch wanting to "circle back on the primary font options," then a quick follow-up: "Miracle happened, contractor caved early. Might escape soon. Meet you near station around 5? Still on for Valenti's?"
Her reply came back almost instantly: "YES! Freedom! Finch is torturing me, need rescuing. See you at 5ish. Valenti's = Mandatory. ❤️"
Energized by the prospect of an early start to the evening, Ethan tackled the terrace revisions with renewed focus. He managed to wrap up the essential drafting just before 4:45 PM. He saved his work, shut down his computer, and packed his briefcase with a sense of liberation he rarely felt on a Tuesday.
"Leaving already, Miller?" his boss inquired, looking up from a pile of papers as Ethan walked past his office door.
"Finished the terrace draft, Howard," Ethan replied casually. "Contractor dispute on the condo project resolved itself too. Figured I'd get a head start on… life?"
Howard grunted, which Ethan interpreted as assent, or at least indifference. He didn't wait for further commentary, making a swift exit towards the elevator. The ride down felt lighter than usual.
Outside, the city was beginning its transition towards the evening rush, but hadn't yet reached peak congestion. The afternoon sun was still high enough to cast long shadows, painting the streets in warmer tones. Traffic flowed more freely than it would in an hour, the sidewalks busy but not yet impassable.
Ethan walked briskly, enjoying the unexpected bonus hour of freedom. He arrived at the corner near Clara's subway station just as his watch showed 5:03 PM. He leaned against the cool stone facade of the bank building, scanning the flow of people emerging from the stairs, a small smile playing on his lips. He felt pleasantly ahead of schedule, anticipating Clara's arrival and the leisurely walk to the restaurant.
A few minutes later, he saw her signature auburn hair bobbing through the crowd exiting the station. She spotted him, her face breaking into a wide, relieved grin as she hurried over.
"Okay, you win Tuesday," she declared, linking her arm through his immediately, as if seeking refuge. "Finch actually used the phrase 'synergistic dynamism' regarding a font choice. I almost fled screaming."
Ethan laughed, pulling her closer. "Sounds like you definitely earned that Negroni. Multiple Negronis."
"Don't tempt me," she said, rolling her eyes dramatically, but her grip on his arm tightened. "Let's escape before my brain melts completely. Valenti's?"
"Valenti's it is," he confirmed. They turned towards the intersection, joining the small gathering of pedestrians waiting for the light. It was a wide avenue, six lanes across, with a pedestrian island in the middle. The traffic lights governed the steady flow of vehicles. Horns honked sporadically, engines hummed, the general pulse of the city thrummed around them.
Ethan glanced down the avenue towards the restaurant, just visible several blocks away. They had plenty of time. He felt a sense of calm anticipation, the stresses of the workday already receding.
Clara squeezed his arm, nodding towards the opposite sidewalk. "Look, there goes Mr. Henderson, walking those poodles. See? Prize-winning."
Ethan followed her gaze, spotting the elderly man being towed along by two fluffy white dogs that seemed almost as big as he was. "Impressive," Ethan admitted dryly. "Wonder if they coordinate their outfits."
The pedestrian signal clicked, illuminating the green 'Walk' sign. The waiting group moved forward into the crosswalk. Ethan and Clara stepped off the curb with them. The cross-traffic heading downtown had halted, drivers watching the clock, waiting for their light.
They were nearing the halfway point, approaching the concrete safety island dividing the avenue. Clara was laughing about something Mr. Henderson had apparently said at their building's last tenant meeting. Ethan was only half-listening, enjoying the warmth of her arm linked through his, the feel of the late afternoon sun on his face. He glanced at his watch, almost unconsciously – 5:16 PM. They were making good time. Dinner felt close.
Then the sound sliced through the mundane rhythm of the city. An engine, revving not smoothly, but raggedly, aggressively. Close. Too close. Followed instantly by the high-pitched scream of tires losing their battle with asphalt.
Ethan's head snapped left. A dark sedan, low-slung and expensive-looking, was barrelling towards the intersection against the red light. It wasn't slowing. It swerved sharply, violently, cutting across two lanes as if aiming for a gap that didn't exist, heading directly for the pedestrians occupying the crosswalk.
Time warped, stretching and compressing simultaneously. Sensory details hit Ethan with jarring clarity:
The sunlight flashing blindingly off the tinted windshield – driver not visible.
The panicked backward surge of people ahead of them, shouts erupting.
The precise angle of the car's uncontrolled skid.
Clara turning beside him, her laughter dying, replaced by wide-eyed, sudden confusion morphing into terror.
Her position. Right in the path. No time.
"Clara!" The name ripped from his lungs as he reacted on pure instinct, shoving her forward with all his strength. Push her clear!
His hands made forceful contact, propelling her stumbling towards the pedestrian island. He felt a split second of desperate hope – maybe it was enough!
But the car was too fast, its swerve too wide. It caught her.
The impact wasn't loud like an explosion. It was a sickeningly solid, heavy thump, a sound utterly alien amidst the urban symphony, cutting through everything else. He saw Clara's body thrown upwards and sideways, limp as a doll, hitting the asphalt hard near the painted white line just inches from the island's curb.
The sedan didn't pause. It fishtailed wildly, corrected with improbable speed, clipped the back end of a yellow taxi waiting at the light, and then accelerated away, weaving through the now-chaotic traffic, vanishing uptown within seconds. A phantom, leaving devastation in its wake.
Ethan stood frozen for a heart-stopping second, the scene burning itself onto his retinas. The disconnect was absolute. This wasn't happening. He'd just been laughing with her. They were going to dinner.
Then the world crashed back in. Screams. Car horns blaring in alarm now. People shouting, pointing, someone yelling about the license plate – too late. His own feet were moving before his brain fully caught up, covering the last few yards to where Clara lay in a horrifyingly still sprawl. He dropped to his knees beside her, the pavement biting into his flesh through his trousers.
"Clara? Clara!" His voice cracked, hoarse with panic.
Her eyes were closed. Her breathing, if she was breathing at all, was imperceptible. Blood pooled beneath her head, stark and dark against the grey asphalt. Her limbs were positioned at angles that screamed wrong.
"No," he breathed, the word a hollow puff of air. "No, no, no." His hands trembled as they hovered over her, afraid to touch, lost in a sudden, paralyzing helplessness. He dimly remembered something about checking for breathing, not moving the neck, but rational thought drowned in a tidal wave of raw terror.
"Clara, please," he begged, his voice breaking. "Open your eyes. Talk to me. Valenti's… we have a table waiting…" He leaned closer, desperate for any sign of life, any flicker beneath her eyelids. He gently brushed a stray lock of hair away from her temple, his fingers encountering the sticky wetness of blood. A wave of bile rose in his throat. "Help! Is anyone calling 911? Somebody help her!" he shouted, his voice cracking, looking frantically at the stunned faces starting to gather around.
A woman in a business suit was already on her phone. "They're on their way," she said, her own voice shaky. "They said don't move her."
Ethan barely registered her words. His focus narrowed entirely onto Clara's still face, searching desperately for any sign of life. Was that a twitch? Was her chest rising? Or was it just his own hope projecting onto the awful stillness? He kept talking to her, rambling about their plans, about Aunt Carol and Mr. Henderson, anything to fill the terrifying silence emanating from her.
Sirens wailed in the distance, growing rapidly louder, converging on their location. Flashing lights began to strobe across the scene, painting the buildings and the shocked faces in pulsing red and blue. Uniformed paramedics emerged from an ambulance, their movements efficient and urgent as they approached with bags and a stretcher.
"Sir, you need to give us room," one of them instructed, placing a firm but gentle hand on Ethan's shoulder to guide him back.
"No! Let me stay!" Ethan protested, trying to shrug him off, unwilling to relinquish his proximity.
"We need space to assess her, sir. Please, just for a moment." The paramedic's voice brooked no argument. Reluctantly, feeling utterly disconnected from his own body, Ethan allowed himself to be moved back a few paces. He stood rooted to the spot, watching with unbearable intensity as they knelt beside Clara. Checking her pulse at her neck, lifting an eyelid to check her pupils with a small flashlight, listening for breath sounds. Their faces were grim, focused, revealing nothing.
One paramedic connected leads to a portable monitor, while the other started relaying information into a handheld radio. Ethan strained to hear, catching only clipped phrases amidst the surrounding noise. "...no response... fixed and dilated... significant head trauma..."
Then, he heard it clearly. The paramedic speaking into the radio glanced down at the monitor, then confirmed into the microphone. "ETA to General West is ten minutes, but... advise hospital we have a confirmed DOA. Time of incident approx... seventeen seventeen."
Seventeen seventeen. 5:17 PM.
DOA. Dead On Arrival.
The world tilted sickeningly beneath Ethan's feet. The sounds of the city, the sirens, the murmuring crowd, all receded into a muffled roar, replaced by a high-pitched ringing in his ears. He stared at Clara's covered form – when had they put the sheet over her? – unable to process the collision of the mundane time stamp with the catastrophic finality of the acronym.
"No," he choked out, shaking his head vehemently, though no sound emerged. Tears streamed down his face unchecked, hot against his cold skin. "She was right here. We were going to dinner. Check again! You missed something!"
He lunged forward, intent on forcing them to re-evaluate, to undo the pronouncement, but the second paramedic gently but firmly blocked his path. "Sir, I understand this is difficult. I am truly sorry for your loss. There was nothing anyone could do."
Nothing anyone could do. The phrase hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Ethan felt his knees buckle, the strength draining out of him completely. The paramedic caught his arm, preventing him from collapsing onto the pavement. He stared blankly at the white sheet, at the flashing lights reflecting off the slick patch of blood darkening the asphalt beside it.
This wasn't happening. It couldn't be. Just moments ago, she was laughing. Just moments ago, they had a future. He squeezed his eyes shut, praying for oblivion, for reversal, for anything but this brutal, incomprehensible reality. But the nightmare held firm, its edges sharp and unforgiving. Clara was gone.