The Bomb Defuser

My phone vibrates on the desk as I'm tuning the live stream setup. The protective suit in the frame glinted with cold light; the zipper at the collar snagged on a loose thread. I had to pick at it three times with my fingernail before it moved smoothly. A video request suddenly popped up on the screen, the red warning icon looking like a bloodstain. It was Ruby Shaw's face, with the rusted iron frame of an abandoned factory behind her, brown rust flaking down. The cuffs of her pants were muddy, with a triangular tear on the leg, exposing an ankle bruised and swollen. "Sis, help me..." Her voice trembled like a candle flickering in the wind, and as the last word fell, the camera suddenly dropped. The frame jolted twice, catching her canvas shoe stepping on the cement floor—washed-out blue fabric, a split at the heel revealing half a fuse, yellowed, wrapped with a strip of transparent tape. "I think I just stepped on..." The rest of the words were swallowed by a buzzing electric sound. My fingertip hovered over the answer button for three seconds. The warmth of my fingertip passed through the screen, like touching a block of ice. Then, I swiped to hang up. The live stream software countdown hit the last ten seconds. I adjusted the collar of my protective suit toward the camera as my assistant Bella's voice came through the headset, a bit out of breath: "Quinn, the equipment's fine, the viewers just topped ten thousand." Someone just sent a luxury gift, asking if you're really going to the '0 cost purchase.' Got it. I adjusted my sitting posture and clipped the phone holder onto the passenger seat's cup holder. The holder was a bit loose, so I stuffed a wad of tissue into the gap. Now it's steady. Today's destination is East City Supermarket. Let me show you the right way to do the '0 cost purchase.' The moment she finished speaking, the bullet screen erupted. "A bomb disposal expert live-streaming a theft? Are you kidding? That's Quinn Shaw from the City Bomb Disposal Team, right? She was on the news last week defusing a bomb!" "Just saw her sister's SOS video—location's an abandoned factory in the suburb. How does she even have the brain to do a live stream right now?" "Cold-blooded! If anything happens to Ruby Shaw, does she think she can handle it? They're born from the same mother, after all!" I started the car; the engine rumbled quietly, drowning out the constant vibration from my mobile phone. In the rearview mirror, under the locust tree by the apartment gate, Ruby Shaw's bike still leaned crookedly against the railing. There was a pink thermos cup in the basket, a birthday gift I gave her last year. Now its lid had fallen on the ground and been blown half a meter away by the wind. Half an hour later, the electronic screen on the supermarket storage locker lit up green. With a click, the locker door popped open a crack. I had just pulled out the pre-hidden toolkit—a black canvas bag stamped with "City Bomb Disposal Team" in white letters, its edges worn frayed—when my mobile phone rang again. This time, it was my mother, Hanna Carter. "Quinn! Where the hell have you been?" Her cries were like a dull knife, stabbing through the earpiece deep into my ear. In the background, sirens wailed, whoa-whoa-whoa, and people shouted, "Move, move, move!" "Ruby Shaw was the last person to contact you before she disappeared! Why didn't you answer your phone? Are you hoping she dies?" I opened the toolkit and pulled out the miniature breaching device. A silver-grey metal case, palm-sized, with a gleaming alloy tip at the top. "Mom, I'm busy." "Busy? What could possibly be more important than your sister's life?" Her voice suddenly shot up, like a cat trapped underfoot, "If Ruby Shaw ends up dead or worse, I won't consider you my daughter! I mean what I say!" I hung up and switched my mobile phone to silent. The automatic doors at the supermarket entrance sensed me and slid open, a gust of cold air mixed with disinfectant scent rushing in, lifting the stray hairs on my forehead. In the live stream, my shadow stretched long under the overhead light, lying between the shelves and the floor like a cold dividing line.