1 I possess a highly specific talent. It is not exactly glamorous, but most commuters would beg on their knees for it. Whenever I board a bus, I can see a glowing number hovering above every passenger’s head, indicating exactly how many stops they have left. The older lady with a 5 floating above her hairless crown? Sure enough, five stops later, she sprints off before the doors even fully open, desperate to beat the morning rush at the farmer’s market. The exhausted woman who falls asleep the second her head hits the window? She sports a 15. A totally burned-out wage slave riding all the way to the end of the line. As for me, I specifically target the 1s. I casually sidle up to them, wait a few minutes, and inherit their warm seat while everyone else glares in pure envy. I cannot help it. A gift is a gift. Until today. It was the start of the holiday break. I dragged my heavy suitcases onto the bus, my eyes scanning the aisle for a fresh zero, ready to claim my prize. Instead, I froze. The entire bus, every single passenger, had the exact same number hovering above their heads. Zero. “God, it is packed in here! I am relying on you, seat whisperer!” My best friend, Sophie, grabbed my arm the second we boarded, pulling me out of my daze. “You are the absolute best at this. Find a spot for a poor, tired girl, will you?” “I am on it.” Lugging both of our oversized bags, I activated my eagle eyes. It was a weird crowd today. Half the bus was filled with kids on a field trip, bright yellow caps on their heads, each sporting a glowing 12. They were all heading to Centennial Park. Only two passengers stood out. One was a gloomy young man sitting by the window, staring blankly at the passing cars. A solid 1 hovered above him. The other was an anxious elderly woman sitting near the aisle. Her number kept glitching, flickering frantically between a 1 and a 2. Maybe she had not decided where to get off yet? Playing it safe, I shoved Sophie and the heaviest suitcase toward the gloomy guy, while I squeezed my way over to the old woman. The moment I got close, something felt incredibly off. The bus was full, but not suffocatingly crowded. The field trip kids were traveling light, holding nothing but little paper flags. Yet, in this relatively spacious section, the old woman was clutching an enormous, heavy cast-iron pot to her chest, absolutely refusing to set it on the floor. Judging by how deeply the pot dug into her thighs, it weighed a ton. She kept glancing around nervously. When I stopped in front of her, she flinched like a cat whose tail had just been stepped on, her eyes locking onto me with fierce paranoia. Watching the numbers flicker wildly above her gray hair, a chilling thought crossed my mind. Did she escape from a memory care unit? “Approaching Ashborne Avenue. Passengers departing, please prepare for your exit.” The mechanical female voice echoed through the speakers. I immediately shot a look at Sophie, raising my eyebrows. That guy is about to leave. Grab his seat! But as I looked at her, my blood ran cold. The number floating above Sophie’s head had changed. It was a 0. I whipped my head around. It was not just her. The entire bus, including the laughing kids waving their little flags, every single number had plummeted to 0. “Wait, no! Stop the car!” In a fraction of a second, the world erupted in blinding hellfire. The searing phantom heat of the explosion still crawled across my skin as a warm hand suddenly clamped onto my arm. “God, it is packed in here! I am relying on you, seat whisperer!” I gasped, whipping my head around. “Sophie! You are alive?!” “What the hell is wrong with you? You are the dead one here!” Sophie glared at me like I had lost my mind, yanking me onto the bus steps. “Just find me a seat and I will forgive your weirdness.” I looked up. There it was. The exact same bus. The old woman clutching her cast-iron pot, smiling nervously at me. “No! Get off!” I grabbed Sophie’s hand and bolted for the doors. “Are you insane? Route 8 is the only one that goes to Union Station!” Sophie yelled, planting her feet. “We will wait for the next one. This bus is way too crowded!” “The next one is in thirty minutes! We will miss our train!” She gripped her suitcase handle, refusing to budge. “Just trust me!” I ripped the suitcase from her grip and spun toward the exit. A heavy pneumatic hiss hissed through the air. The doors slammed shut right in my face. I banged on the glass, staring at the driver. “Let us out!” He completely ignored me, stepping on the gas with zero hesitation. “Next stop, Ashborne Avenue.” The mechanical voice made my entire body shudder. Ashborne Avenue. That was where the fire started. The adrenaline spiked in my veins. I shoved my way to the front and screamed at the driver. “Stop the bus! We need to get off right now!” The driver slowly turned his head. His pupils were completely unfocused, staring right through me. “Time is up. You can exit at the next stop.” He spoke in a flat, monotone rhythm, like a machine stripped of its soul. “He is right, dear. Just wait for the next stop. Stop causing a fuss and come sit by me.” The old woman smiled, waving her wrinkled hand at me, her index finger curling in a slow, hypnotic motion. “I guess you were right,” Sophie whispered from behind me, her voice trembling slightly. “The vibe in here is completely unhinged. We are definitely getting off at the next stop.” I squeezed my eyes shut. There is no next stop. “Come here, sweetie.” The old woman was still waving me over. I let out a shaky breath and walked toward her. If I could not run, I had to face the threat head-on. I glanced back, hoping to tell Sophie to keep her distance, only to see her dragging her suitcase right next to the gloomy young man. He sat there like a stone gargoyle, his head bowed, hugging his leather briefcase tight against his chest. I turned my attention back to the old woman. The moment she caught me staring at her cast-iron pot, her welcoming smile vanished entirely. The driver hit the brakes hard, and a distinct, heavy rolling sound echoed from inside the pot. She instantly tightened her grip, her knuckles turning white as her paranoid eyes darted around the cabin. Seeing that nobody else noticed, she let out a long sigh of relief. Then, a high-pitched voice shattered the quiet. “Grandma, what is in your pot?” The old woman violently flinched. “N-nothing! Nothing at all!” “Nothing? Then why are you hugging it like a baby? Want me to hold it for you?” I reached out. She exploded like a lit fuse. “I said I do not need help! Back off!” The driver coughed loudly from the front, and her fiery attitude immediately extinguished. “I am getting off at the next stop anyway. You can have the seat.” She stood up abruptly, hugging the heavy pot to her chest, and practically fled to the rear exit doors. I stared at her back. The flickering 2 and 3 above her head suddenly stabilized into a solid 1. She was telling the truth. She really was getting off at the next stop. Did I accuse the wrong person? But her pot was the only thing on this bus large enough to hide a homemade explosive. I scanned the cabin, my eyes drifting over the field trip kids with their tiny flags, until my gaze locked onto something else. Wait. There was one other person. I stared at the young man sitting next to Sophie. His leather briefcase. It was bulging grotesquely, stretched so tight it looked completely spherical. I opened my mouth to yell for Sophie to move, but the bus hit a massive pothole. A loud metallic clatter rang out. The cast-iron pot had slipped from the old woman’s grasp and hit the floor. I whipped around, my jaw dropping as I saw what rolled out. “Pickled eggs?!” Before I could even process the sight of a dozen hard-boiled eggs rolling across the ribbed rubber floor, a pungent, eye-watering stench of fermented garlic, vinegar, and sulfur violently assaulted the air. Passengers groaned in unison, pulling their shirts over their noses. “How many times do I have to tell you?!” the driver roared. “No foul-smelling food on my bus!” “I am so sorry! I am so sorry, everyone!” The old woman dropped to her knees, frantically chasing the rolling eggs, bowing her head in utter humiliation. “My granddaughter is in the hospital. She cannot keep any food down, but she grew up loving my spicy pickled eggs.” “I do not care about your sob story! Get that garbage off my bus!” Watching this fragile woman getting scolded like a naughty child twisted my stomach. I knelt down to help her gather the spilled food. “Approaching Ashborne Avenue.” The moment my fingers brushed a cold, slippery egg, that icy mechanical voice rang out from the speakers. Instantly, a devastating shockwave of raw heat erupted from behind me. Engulfed in flames, I forced my neck to turn. Right there. It came from right there. “God, it is packed in here.” Before Sophie could even finish her sentence, I was already sprinting down the aisle, lunging straight for the gloomy young man. “Hand over the briefcase! Right now, or I am calling the cops!” I slammed my hands down on the bulging leather, feeling the hard, packed objects beneath the surface. He slowly looked up. His eyes were so hollow, so suffocated by pure despair, that my heart actually skipped a beat. “Give it to me,” I demanded, forcing my voice to stay steady. “What is wrong with you, lady?” one of the kids piped up. “Do you know this guy? Why are you trying to steal his stuff?” I recognized that little girl. During the first two explosions, she survived the initial blast. I remembered her lying in the burning wreckage, weeping softly, whispering that it hurt, begging for her mother. My knuckles turned stark white as I gripped the bag strap. I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper. I will make sure the suffering ends in this lifetime. “Yeah, who do you think you are? You just board a bus and start robbing people?” The chaperone teacher stood up, his face twisted in disgust. “Stop traumatizing my students!” “Listen up, kids! This is called assault. Do not ever act like this maniac!” he yelled, pointing a thick finger at me. Sophie yanked hard on my sleeve, her voice a frantic hiss. “What are you doing? Let go before you get us arrested!” I ignored her, my eyes locked on the young man. In the previous loop, I felt the searing shockwave originate exactly from where he was sitting. I yanked the heavy briefcase with all my strength. He refused to let go, his grip tightening as the force pulled him entirely out of his seat. He stumbled into the aisle, breathing heavily. “Look at her!” the teacher shouted, his voice booming over the engine noise. “She is actually getting violent! Unbelievable.” “Picking on a guy who was just minding his business. Real tough.” “Probably doing it for some viral video. Look at the way she is dressed.” The hostility hit me in waves. I was the villain. I was the monster. Sophie’s eyes were red with frantic embarrassment. “Are you done making a scene?! Everyone is staring! If you do not care about your reputation, I care about mine!” She clawed at my fingers, desperately trying to pry me off the bag. I clenched my jaw, forcing the words out of my tight throat. “He has a bomb in this bag.” The entire bus fell dead silent. Into the suffocating quiet, the icy mechanical voice drifted through the speakers. “Approaching Ashborne Avenue.” Before the tires even screeched to a halt, the heavy thud of combat boots hit the steps. Police officers swarmed the vehicle. “Step back! Nobody move!” “Hands where we can see them!” The passengers froze in sheer terror, their jaws dropping as they slowly raised their hands in the air. “Officers.” a frail, trembling voice floated from the back corner. Everyone turned, staring at the old woman like she had a death wish. She was clearly terrified, shrinking against the window, yet she forced herself to ask the question. “What is going on here? My granddaughter is very sick. I need to get to the hospital.” “We received a 911 call reporting an explosive device on this transit line.” A collective gasp sucked the oxygen out of the cabin. The teacher who had screamed at me stood frozen, his eyes darting from the heavily armed cops to the briefcase still locked in my grip. Sophie was paralyzed, her hand still raised in the air from trying to pry my fingers loose. I finally let go of the strap and slowly raised my hands. “I made the call.” “Are you insane?!” Sophie shrieked, her voice cracking in pure panic. She grabbed my arm, her nails digging into my skin. “What is wrong with your brain? You saw a fat bag and decided to call in a bomb threat?!” “Do you know they throw you in federal prison for fake threats?!” Her face was flushed purple. “You have been saying weird stuff all week, seeing things, acting paranoid. I thought you were just stressed! But now you are hallucinating bombs? You need psychiatric help!” The crowd immediately started murmuring. The teacher clutched his chest, letting out a loud, exaggerated breath. “Jesus, my heart. It is just a fake call.” He glared at me with pure venom. “I knew it. A perfectly normal commute ruined by some paranoid lunatic!” “Sweetheart,” the old woman called out gently, clutching her cast-iron pot. “Do not put so much pressure on yourself. Here, Grandma will give you a nice egg to calm your nerves.” “Silence!” The lead officer stepped forward, his eyes locked on me. “You made the call? Where is the device?” “Him.” I pointed directly at the gloomy man. “He hid the explosive inside his briefcase.” Sophie stomped her foot, tears of frustration spilling over. “Stop lying! You just want to ruin our lives, do you not? You are completely unhinged!” “He is the unhinged one!” I ripped my arm away from her, pointing fiercely at the man. He still had his head bowed, utterly detached from the chaos around him. It was as if the rest of the universe did not exist. Just him, and the bag clutched to his chest. “Let us see what is inside, then we will know for sure.” I lunged for the bag. He twisted away. My fingers missed the leather but caught something dangling from the zipper. A sharp snap echoed as a plastic keychain broke off and hit the floor. It was like flipping a switch. The man’s head snapped up violently. “Enough!” His eyes were completely bloodshot, wild and cornered. The sheer agony in his gaze made the entire bus recoil. Sophie instinctively hid behind my back. “You want to see? Fine! Look at it!” He jumped up, ripped the zipper open, and turned the entire bag upside down, violently shaking it. A heavy, pathetic crash followed. Manila folders, cheap ballpoint pens, a dented thermos, a half-eaten box of saltines, and six frayed notebooks slammed against the rubber floor. Nothing else. No wires. No explosives. No weapons. The bus was dead silent. “Are you happy now?” He dropped to his knees, his voice muffled and thick with unshed tears as he slowly began picking up his scattered life. “They fired me today.” “Six years. Six years I gave them, and they fired me with zero notice. I did not even have time to find a cardboard box. I shoved my entire desk into my bag. That is why it is fat.” He stopped talking. He just kept picking up his pens, looking like a stray dog that had just been kicked into the gutter. Then he reached for the plastic keychain. He slowly turned it over. The smiling face of a little girl was printed beneath the scratched plastic. “My little sister.” His voice cracked, raw and hollow. “A drunk driver killed my parents. She has been in a coma in the ICU ever since. Where the hell would I get money to build a bomb? I cannot even afford to keep her life support running.” The air left my lungs. “I am so sorry. I did not know.” A muffled, terrifying boom ruptured the air. A devastating shockwave ripped from the back of the bus, tearing through the metal and flesh in a blinding flash of orange. The shrieks of the dying melted into one horrifying chord. Through the thick, suffocating black smoke, fighting the agony of my own burning skin, I forced my neck to turn one last time. Through the haze, I saw a hand. A hand tightly gripping a detonator switch. On its middle finger, a thin silver ring caught the flames, flashing a brilliant, blinding light straight into my pupils. My eyes widened in absolute, paralyzing horror. How is it you?!
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