(AGAIN AND AGAIN AND AGAIN…) SAY PSYCH RIGHT NOW IV

So what did Taylor actually know?

The picture was still painfully incomplete, yet it was clearer than it had been before, and after so many loops spent stumbling in ignorance, that small distinction mattered more than she cared to admit. 

The woman on the bus had been coerced into doing something she did not want to do, something that terrified her to the point of breaking down in public. That fear was genuine, raw in a way that could not be fabricated or exaggerated, and her apologies had never truly been meant for Taylor alone. They were for what she knew she was going to do, for the role she had been forced to play in something monstrous.

Another woman was also involved. Someone with enough power and cruelty to use fear as a tool, to ensure that the woman on the bus knew that distance wasn't a barrier to follow through on her threats. 

It was not much to work with, and it even came with far more questions than answers, but it was something. If Taylor was careful and chose her words correctly, she might be able to pry loose more information. At the very least, she could confirm whether this second woman was responsible for the deaths that ended each loop, or whether the woman on the bus was only an unwilling instrument in a far larger and far worse plan.

There was also the very real risk that pushing too hard would shatter what little composure the woman had left, reducing her to incoherent grief once again and leaving Taylor no closer to the truth than before.

Still, needs must when the devil drove.

When the next loop began and the bus doors opened with their familiar pneumatic hiss, Taylor boarded without hesitation. She did not linger or observe, did not test the pattern one more time to reassure herself that she was right and the woman was indeed involved. Instead, she moved straight toward the front, her expression carefully arranged into something sharp and furious.

The woman was already speaking, her voice quavering as she warned anyone who would listen that Lung’s arrest was a mistake, that it would only make things worse for the city. Taylor cut her off before she could gather momentum.

“How could you let her make you do this?” she shouted.

The accusation rang through the bus, harsh and accusatory, and the effect was immediate. Recognition flashed across the woman’s face, followed by a wave of horror just as intense as before. Around them, passengers stiffened, conversations dying as heads snapped toward the confrontation, confusion and unease spreading through the cramped space.

Taylor did not allow the woman time to crumple this time.

“Why?” she demanded, her voice trembling with carefully cultivated anger. “Do you have any idea what you are about to do? Do you know how terrible it is?”

The woman’s mouth worked soundlessly for several seconds, her breath coming in ragged pulls as she stared at Taylor like a trapped animal. For a moment, Taylor feared she would break down again without answering, and the frustration flared hot in her chest.

Then the words came.

“I could not say no,” the woman said, her voice rushing out in a torrent thick with despair. “She took my whole family. She had them. She said she would kill them all if I refused, and she already killed my boy. My poor boy. There was nothing I could do.”

The bus went utterly silent at that.

Something sharp and electric cut through Taylor’s exhaustion, a jolt of triumph that left her feeling almost dizzy. Hostages. Murder. Leverage so absolute it had reduced this woman to a trembling wreck. This was not random, even if Taylor still did not understand why this bus, or why this moment, in particular had been chosen. It reeked of some larger conspiracy, and she had no doubt that whatever was happening went far beyond opportunistic villainy. Someone—this second woman—was more twisted and cruel than the average villain, and seemed happy enough to orchestrate things from the shadows.

This was information, real information, the kind that could be traced and followed.

But it was also too much.

The moment the woman mentioned her son, whatever fragile composure she had left shattered. Her voice dissolved into sobs as her words lost all coherency, grief swallowing everything else.

“My son,” she cried, clutching at herself as if she could physically contain the pain. “My poor boy. I am sorry. I am so sorry.”

People recoiled from her now, fear plain on their faces. They had heard enough to understand that whatever was happening involved them as well, and that whatever it was, was terrible and unfolding around them without their consent or understanding.

Taylor exhaled slowly.

She closed her eyes, shutting out the rising panic on the bus and the way people were backing away from both of them (as if that would save them). There was nothing more to be gained from this loop. She had her answers, or at least the beginnings of them, and that would have to be enough for now.

She prepared herself as the familiar end approached, steadying her breathing and letting the exhaustion settle back into her bones.

Then she died again.