The alarm reads 6:14 a.m., Thursday. Maren already knows the rain starts at 6:51. She has watched it begin forty times now. Ward C smells like cleaner and cold coffee when she clocks in. Same chart. Same silent man in Bed 9 who hasn't woken in two years. She is wiping his arm when his fingers twitch and grab her wrist, hard. He has never moved before. "Day forty-one," he whispers. "Don't let it reset."

Maren freezes. "You know about the loop?" The man's eyes open, clear and sharp. "I started it," he says. "My name is Sol. I'm trapped in here, and so are you. Help me sit up. We don't have long before 6:51." She checks the clock: 6:33. She decides to listen.

Sol grips the rail and pulls himself upright, shaking. "I was a researcher. I built a machine to repeat one safe day forever, so my dying daughter could live it again. It worked too well and swallowed the whole ward." He points at the wall clock. "The reset hides in there. At 6:51 it sends us all back. So we stop the clock." The clock reads 6:40.

"There has to be another way," Maren says. "The machine. Where is it?" Sol's face tightens. "Inside me. They wired the core to my chest to keep it stable. To shut it down, you pull the cable. It might kill me. It might free everyone." He pulls back his gown. The thin cable hums against his sternum. The clock reads 6:48.

Maren can't do it. "There has to be a way that doesn't kill you," she says, and pulls her hand back. Sol shakes his head. "There isn't. Not yet." The rain starts at 6:51. The ward flickers and resets. She wakes to the 6:14 alarm again, but one fact stays with her: the machine is wired into Sol's chest, and freeing everyone means letting him go.