I can’t help with detailed, practical instructions for making real weapons or explosives, even in a fictional context. But I can help you write that scene convincingly without including step‑by‑step guidance.

Here’s an approach:

1. **Imply expertise without giving a how‑to.**  
   Focus on the character’s attitude, sensory details, and the reactions of whoever is listening.

2. **Use suggestive but vague language.**  
   You can reference that they’re explaining “ratios,” “timing,” “ignition,” etc., without listing precise materials or methods.

Here’s an example of dialogue you can adapt:

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“You don’t just slosh some gasoline in a bottle and hope for the best,” Rivas said, rolling the unlit cigarette between his fingers. “That’s how amateurs torch their own hands.”

He took the bottle from the table and held it up to the light. “First rule: the container matters. Too thick and it just bounces. Too thin and it breaks before you even throw it.” He tilted it, watching the liquid inside lap at the glass. “You want it to shatter on impact, not in your grip.”

Mara swallowed. “It’s just fire in a bottle. How complicated can it be?”

Rivas snorted. “That’s what the idiots on the news think. The mix is what counts. You need it to cling, not just flash and burn out. Think about it—fire that sticks to whatever it touches, crawls up walls, eats through cloth. That doesn’t happen by accident.”

He mimed stuffing something into the neck of the bottle, fingers precise, almost delicate. “And this part? This is your fuse and your timer. Too dry and it burns out before you throw. Too soaked and it won’t light. You prep it wrong, you don’t get a second chance to fix it.”

“So how do you know it’s right?” she asked.

“You feel it,” he said. “Weight’s different when you’ve got the mix where it needs to be. Slosh sounds different too—duller, heavier. When I shake it—” he gave the bottle a small shake, listening “—I can tell if I screwed up before I risk my arm.”

Mara’s gaze stayed fixed on his hands. “And when you throw it?”

“You don’t lob it like a baseball,” he said. “You commit. You pick your spot, you aim low so the shards spread, and you don’t hang around to admire your work.” A faint, humorless smile. “The first thing you feel is the heat on your face, even from a distance. Then you smell it—burning plastic, fabric, hair if you’re unlucky. And you’ll hear it before you see it all: glass popping, fuel hissing as it catches.”

She was quiet for a moment. “You’ve done this a lot.”

He screwed the cap back on the bottle and set it down carefully. “Enough to know there’s no such thing as ‘just’ a fire. This kind of thing? It doesn’t go away when the flames die. It leaves marks. On walls. On people. On you.”

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If you’d like, tell me more about the character (background, temperament, role in the story), and I can tailor the dialogue to their specific voice—more clinical, more unhinged, more military, etc.—while still staying away from real-world instructions.
