The Bomb and the Weight of My Choice

My husband's protégé boasted she could disarm bombs blindfolded, relying on her so-called intuition.

Her reckless misjudgment triggered a bomb's secondary detonation sequence, endangering an entire building. I intervened, using the dangerous liquid nitrogen condensation method to save the day.

As a result, Rita Smith was removed from frontline duties and placed under investigation.

Patrick Munoz tried to defend her, but I stopped him cold. "If you back her now, you won't just fail to save her. You'll be dragged down with her."

Crushed by the pressure, Rita staged an accident that killed her, leaving a letter blaming him for abandoning her in her hour of need. He said nothing, only preserving her letter in his study.

Years later, he became a nationally renowned bomb disposal expert.

During a terrorist attack, I was strapped to a timed explosive. He arrived to defuse it but repeated Rita's fatal mistake.

As the timer ticked down, he gave a bitter laugh. "Rita was just nervous back then. If I'd supported her, she'd be a hero today."

The bomb detonated, leaving nothing of me behind.

When I opened my eyes again, I was back to the point when he tried to defend Rita.

He didn't know that the building housed the nation's top-secret core server.

...

The moment I realized I'd been reborn, I abandoned my plan to rush to the scene. Instead, I returned to my dorm and switched off my encrypted communicator.

In my past life, Rita Smith's error had her frantically messaging me for help. I'd just completed a grueling mission, sleepless for three days, yet I risked my life, enduring liquid nitrogen burns, to save the core server in that building.

Because of my efforts, the military spared her a court-martial, opting for suspension and investigation instead. If she had avoided further mistakes, she could have returned to duty.

But Rita's fragile ego couldn't handle her colleagues' scorn. She staged a fatal accident that blew herself up.

Years later, Patrick Munoz's obsession with proving her right led to my death in an explosion.

I pulled the blanket over my head and slept until dawn.

The next morning, I turned on my communicator. The screen lit up with over a hundred missed calls and red alerts.

Undazed, I took my time washing up, donned my uniform, and headed to the scene.

Outside the cordon, the air was thick with dread, despair etched on every face. Rita sat on the ground, disheveled and trembling like a leaf.

Her colleagues glared with cold venom.

"This is your fault, Rita! You and your stupid intuition nonsense!"

"You triggered the secondary detonation. We're all dead now."

"General Wilson will have us all court-martialed."

Rita's gaze swept the crowd, landing on me. Her eyes briefly lit up, as if I were her salvation, but then they darkened with resentment.

She pointed at me, yelling at the top of his lungs, "It was her! I called her all night. She could've saved us, but she turned off her phone to let us die!"

All eyes turned to me, sharp as blades.

Seizing the moment, Rita stumbled toward me and thrust her communicator in my face. The screen blazed with call logs.

"You know what's in that building!" she shrieked, tears streaming. "National secrets! Yet you went offline at a critical moment. What's your agenda?"

The crowd fell silent, waiting for my response.

The sight of her twisted face reignited my past life's fury. My hand flew up, delivering a sharp slap across her face.