It's not the blue of electric welding or the blue of gas stoves. It was the color of Xie Wan's sweater - it had been washed for too long and turned gray, and there were still threads on the cuffs that had not been removed. Cen Jin squatted in the wreckage of the subway entrance, holding half a match in his hand. It took three wipes to light it. When the flames flickered, there was no smell in the air, not even smoke.
