After the success of my scent onslaught, the stench from Zhou Yan's apartment faded for half a day. But it was not long before it returned, only this time, his movements were clearly more cautious. The door barely opened at all; even the sound of footsteps in the hallway vanished. He was like a turtle retreating into its shell—no appearance, no response, no confrontation, only continuing to torture me with the stench.
I stood in my apartment, staring out the window, the pain in my nose growing worse by the day. I knew scents alone were not enough. I needed to know who he was, why he was creating the stench, what he was hiding in that apartment. I needed to find his weakness, the chink in his armor that would let me strike a fatal blow. Blindly clashing would only leave both of us wounded, only make me lose my sense of smell sooner.
I changed my strategy. No more waiting for Wednesday, no more only staking out two in the morning. I squatted in the hallway every night, all night long. Mosquito bites, cold wind, hunger, exhaustion—I endured it all, my eyes fixed on his door, on every trace of movement.
He never left the apartment in the daytime, never spoke to a neighbor, like a man who did not exist, a shadow living in the dark. His trash was always sealed, tight as a drum, not a single extra whiff escaping. I ransacked every corner of the hallway, every trash bin—found nothing. The trail went cold. Despair wrapped around me once more.
Late on the third night, my legs numb from squatting, I stood to leave, and out of the corner of my eye, I spotted a torn card in the corner by Zhou Yan's door, trampled dirty, split into three or four pieces. My heart lurched, and I rushed over, my fingers trembling as I picked up the pieces and pieced them together. The paper was yellowed, the edges curled—it was an ID card. The photo was blurry, but the name was clear: Zhou Yan. And a line of text beneath it: Forensic Science Department, City Public Security Bureau.
I froze, blood rushing to my head in an instant. Forensic pathologist. He'd been a forensic pathologist. No wonder he could handle the smell of corpses, no wonder he knew embalming fluid, no wonder his control of scents was terrifyingly precise.
I clenched the pieces tight, my knuckles white, and pulled out my phone at once, digging out a number I hadn't contacted in a long time—Old Chen, a former friend from the spice business, well-connected, quick with information. I sent him the name and unit, only one line: Check on him for me, as fast as you can.
Half an hour later, the phone rang. Old Chen's voice was laced with wariness.
"Why are you asking about this guy? He was fired a long time ago—no one in the circle dares mention him."
I kept my voice low: "Talk."
Old Chen fell silent for a few seconds.
"Zhou Yan was a top forensic pathologist once, meticulous, his sense of smell even keener than yours. Then he was reported for torture to extract a confession in a murder case—used some special methods to force the killer to plead guilty, and was kicked out on the spot. The details of the case are sealed tight; can't find a thing."
I clenched the phone, my knuckles white. Anything else? I pressed.
Old Chen paused, his voice dropping even lower.
"There's a rumor. He's abnormally sensitive to the smell of fire scenes—so sensitive it makes him lose control, makes him break down."
My eyes flew open. Fire. The word hit my heart like a hammer. The orphanage. The fire that killed so many children, the darkest memory of my childhood. Zhou Yan was afraid of the smell of fire. This was his weakness.
I held the torn forensic ID, my body trembling. I'd found it. I'd finally found his Achilles' heel. Zhou Yan. Next time, I would not use acrid scents. I would use what he feared most, burn through his defenses.