The lingering fumes of the pungent scent only lasted a dozen minutes. Then the familiar stench returned to the hallway, thicker, fishier, more piercing than ever.
I leaned by the window, my nose bleeding again. Warm droplets hit the windowsill, blooming into small red splotches. I stared at Zhou Yan's door on the seventh floor, my teeth clenched so hard they ached.
He'd countered it. My counterattack had been like punching a cushion—useless, and he'd turned it back on me. The stronger stench was his provocation, his counterattack. I could picture him inside, mask on, cold eyes watching my futile struggles like a cat watching a mouse trapped in a cage.
I touched my nose; the pain of nerve swelling shot up my nasal cavity, the doctor's warning ringing in my ears again. Three days. I had only three days left. If I didn't find a way to break his defenses, I would lose my sense of smell forever—become a useless man without scent, a madman trapped by mental trauma.
I could not lose. I had to find his method of neutralizing odors, find a way around his barrier, make the scent seep truly into his apartment, into his bones.
I dug out all my scent test papers, my fingertips white from the pressure. I knew he must be using some kind of neutralizing perfume—a specially formulated scent that could quickly cover and break down acrid odors. It was hidden in his trash, in his every move.
I began to wait, waiting for him to throw out the trash again. This time, I would not be reckless, not only rush forward. I would set a trap—a trap I could win with nothing but scents.
Late on Wednesday night, ten to two. I snuck into the hallway early; the dark was lit only
by the emergency light's green glow. I squatted by the trash bin and laid a clean scent test paper gently on its edge, right where his trash would land. When I was done, I slipped back behind the fire hydrant quickly, my heart hammering, the air thick with the unshakable stench. I held my breath, staring at the closed door.
Two o'clock sharp. Click. The door opened. Zhou Yan stepped out, still in black, mask and gloves on, movements as fast as the wind. Bend down, drop trash, turn around—no extra movement at all. I stared at the test paper intently; his trash bag hit the bin's edge hard, pressing right onto the paper. Three seconds. The door closed. The hallway fell silent again.
I waited ten minutes, making sure he would not come out again, then slowly crawled out, my fingertips trembling as I picked up the test paper and brought it to my nose.
The familiar smell of embalming fluid hit first, followed by a faint, clear fragrance—like ice, like mist, like cold moonlight. Faint, so faint no ordinary person could detect it. But I could. I was a perfumer. I remembered scents, never forgetting.
This was it. This faint fragrance was what had neutralized my pungent scent, broken down my attack. I clenched the test paper tight, a cold chill seizing my body even as heat rushed through it. I'd found it. I'd finally found his ace in the hole.
Back at home, I set the test paper on the table and lay awake all night. I spread out all the spices in the house—every bottle, every bag, every gram, every drop. Drawing on my memory, on the sense of smell etched into my bones, I set about recreating that faint fragrance, drop by drop.
First attempt: too strong. Second: too sweet. Third: missing a hint of coldness. Fourth: lacking a woody base note. I mixed and sniffed, over and over. Blood dripped from my nose time and again, splattering onto the spices, staining the powder red. I paid no mind, did not even wipe it away, my eyes bloodshot like a beast cornered.
Two days and two nights. I did not close my eyes, did not eat, only drank cold water. Finally, when the last drop of spice fell into the bowl, a clear, sharp fragrance drifted out—exactly the same as the one on the test paper.
I'd figured it out. I had the full formula for his neutralizing perfume in my hands.
I laughed, a wild, bitter sound. Zhou Yan. You thought you hid it well, thought you could always hold the upper hand. Now I know your game.
I picked up the pungent paste I'd brewed earlier and added a special spice to it—one that could completely suppress and cancel out that faint fragrance, spicy, overbearing, infinitely penetrating. When the neutralizing perfume met it, it would fail in an instant, torn to shreds like paper.
I refilled the spray bottle. This time, I would not wait for Wednesday, not wait for the dead of night. I would strike in the daytime—when Zhou Yan was definitely home.
I snuck upstairs; the hallway was empty. I gripped the spray bottle tight, aimed it at the crack in his door, and sprayed hard—once, twice, three times, ten times. The thick scent seeped into the apartment through the crack. It was not enough. I scraped the remaining paste and slathered it thickly on the wall by his door. The scent would seep in slowly, linger, spread, seep into every crack and crevice.
When I was done, I retreated quickly, hiding back behind the fire hydrant. Ten minutes. Twenty minutes. Then, from inside the apartment, came violent coughing—not stifled, but desperate, ragged, followed by the loud crash of something being smashed to the floor. Clang. Crash.
I knew it. I'd won. This time, he could not hide. This time, the scent had truly seeped into his prison.