Jill’s breath came slow and steady, one gloved hand gripping the insulated cutters, the other keeping a measured hold on the casing of the dummy bomb. Her blue S.T.A.R.S. uniform was flecked with dust from the cracked floor of the practice range, and the yellow halogen light overhead hummed like it had something to say. But she wasn’t listening. Her attention was locked, laser-focused, on the cheap plastic casing split open in front of her.

“Red wire,” she muttered under her breath, low and firm. “Then blue. Then ground it.” Her brow creased. It’s a goddamn simulation, Jill. Don’t treat it like a live one.

But she always treated it like a live one. That’s why they kept her on this shit, it's not like she had the flashiest scores in a live-fire scenario—Chris had her beat on that front.

The wire came free with a snick, and the faux timer on the shell stuttered and blinked out. She let out a breath, short, like the exhale after a punch, and leaned back on her heels. Her knees popped in protest—she’d been crouched there for thirty minutes, going through the same drill five different times, trying to get her fingers even faster.

Three more seconds shaved off. Still too slow. You lose three seconds in the field and somebody else pays for it.

The warehouse smelled like oil and warm metal. She hated that smell—reminded her of when they pulled body parts out of the wreckage in that fucking motel fire last year. The one the department barely talked about now. Gas leak, they said. Tragic.

Bullshit.

She stood, tugging her gloves off with her teeth, fingers sore and hot. She’d go again in ten, after her hands stopped shaking. Not that anyone could see. Jill never let them see that.