After confirming the smell of embalming fluid on the trash, I lay awake all night, my mind swirling with questions. Who was Zhou Yan? Was there a corpse in his apartment? Was the stench really rotting flesh? Countless questions circled in my head, filling me with fear—but more than that, anger.
To hide his secrets, he'd been willing to ruin my life, my body, with this stench. Selfish, cruel. I would not let this go.
My first probe had confirmed he was doing this on purpose. Now, I would fight back—using my gift, using scents, to force him out, to make him stop.
My goal was clear: brew a pungent, penetrating scent, and spray it through the crack of his door the next time he stepped out to throw trash. Either force him to open the door and confront me, or make him taste the torment of acrid odors himself. At the very least, make him stop creating the stench.
But dreams are sweet, reality cruel. I ransacked my entire rental apartment, digging out every spice I owned—mostly expired powder, a few nearly empty bottles of base essence. No professional blending tools, no precise measuring instruments, not even fresh spices—just a pile of useless scraps.
That wasn't the worst of it. What troubled me most was that I had no idea if Zhou Yan had anything in his apartment to neutralize odors. He'd hidden the smell of embalming fluid so well; he probably had a professional air purifier, or a neutralizing perfume. If the pungent scent I brewed was easily countered, this counterattack would be a total failure. It would do nothing, and only tip him off, making him more vigilant—leaving me with no more chances.
I sat at the table, staring at the pile of expired spice powder, frustration bubbling inside me. My nose itched again; I clapped a hand over it, and a drop of blood seeped through my fingers, splattering onto the powder, staining it red.
I stared at the red splotch—and suddenly, I laughed.
What was I afraid of? I had no way out. Even with only expired powder, even if he countered it—I had to try. It was better to grasp at straws than wait passively for the loss of my sense of smell, for madness.
I took a deep breath, calming my frustration, and began to sort through the powder. I poured all the expired spice onto the table, sniffing each bottle one by one—acrid, spicy, strong. I picked out every scent that packed a punch: expired chili powder, pungent wasabi powder, a bottle of overpowering peppermint essence. I even dug out an expired mothball and ground it into powder.
Each of these scents was acrid on its own; mixed together, their penetration would be unstoppable.
I found a clean small bowl, dumped the selected powders into it in one go, twisted open the nearly empty peppermint essence and added a few drops, then poured in a little water and stirred it continuously with a chopstick until it formed a thick paste.
No sooner had I finished stirring than a powerful, pungent odor burst from the bowl. I inhaled it unawares, and my nose stung like it had been pricked with a needle. Tears and snot streamed down my face at once, my throat burning as I coughed uncontrollably.
It was fierce—far more acrid than I'd imagined. I quickly set the bowl by the window to air out, coughing as I rubbed my nose, a surge of joy rising in my chest. This was the scent. So pungent that even if Zhou Yan had a neutralizing perfume, he could not counter it in an instant.
I found a small spray bottle—the kind used for facial toner—washed it clean and dried it, then carefully poured the thick, pungent paste into it, twisted the cap tight and shook it a few times. I tested it: it sprayed a fine mist, perfect.
Now, all that was left was to wait. Wait for the next Wednesday night, wait for those three minutes that would be my chance to fight back.
This week was an agony. The stench continued to erode my body, my sense of smell fading by the day—sometimes, I had to strain to detect even faint odors. The doctor's three-day deadline loomed closer and closer. I had to succeed. Otherwise, I was truly finished.
On Wednesday night, I hid behind the fire hydrant even earlier than before, the spray bottle clenched tight in my hand, my fingertips numb from the pressure. I stared at Zhou Yan's door, my heart a mix of nervousness and anticipation—nervous of the consequences if I was caught, eager for this counterattack to work, for him to stop creating the stench.
Time ticked by. Two o'clock sharp.
Click.
Zhou Yan's door opened on the dot. The familiar stench washed over me again. I fought back the nausea, gripping the spray bottle tight. Zhou Yan stepped out, the same as always: black clothes, black mask, black gloves, two black sealed bags in his hands. His movements were still fast, walking straight for the bin.
I held my breath, my eyes fixed on his every move.
Now.
Just as he bent down to drop the trash into the bin and turned to close the door, I burst out from behind the fire hydrant, sprinting for the crack in his door. Zhou Yan seemed to sense something, his body pausing for a split second. I dared not hesitate, darting to the door, raising the spray bottle and spraying twice hard through the crack. The thick, pungent paste seeped inside with the mist.
I turned and ran the moment I was done, faster than last time, terrified of being caught. I sprinted back behind the fire hydrant, clapping a hand over my mouth, my heart hammering. I pricked up my ears, listening for any sound from inside Zhou Yan's apartment.
One second, two seconds, three seconds. Nothing. Had it not worked? My heart sank in an instant.
Just as despair set in, a dull thud came from inside: boom. It sounded like something had fallen to the floor, followed by the dull, messy scrape of something being dragged: crash, crash. And a faint, stifled cough—soft, but I heard it clearly.
I exhaled a long breath of relief. It worked! My pungent scent had hit its mark. He'd definitely been choked by the acrid odor.
I squatted behind the fire hydrant, a smile tugging at my lips.
Zhou Yan. This is only the beginning. If you don't stop creating the stench, next time I'll brew an even more acrid, more powerful scent. I'll make you know what it's like to be tortured by odors. I'll force you to open that door with your own hands, to tell all the truth.
I squatted there for another ten minutes. No more sounds came from inside Zhou Yan's apartment, only the faint pungent scent drifting out through the crack, mixing with the stench to form an even more bizarre, acrid odor. I slowly stood, tiptoed back to my apartment, and closed the door, leaning against it and letting out a long sigh.
The first counterattack was a success. But I knew this was only the start of a protracted war. Zhou Yan would not let this go easily. He would fight back. And I had to be ready—ready to face his next strike.