After Zhou Yan stopped fighting back, the hallway fell into an eerie silence. The stench was gone, no movement, no sound, no odor—like a dead house. Too quiet, unnervingly quiet. I knew it was an illusion. He was waiting, waiting for me to let my guard down, waiting for me to come to him voluntarily. But I had to go in. I had to collect evidence, to uncover the truth behind the stench, to confirm his connection to the orphanage fire. This was my only chance.
I prepared myself: a simple lockpick, the neutralizing perfume slathered all over my body to mask every trace of my scent, to avoid the odor detectors by his door. Late at night, three o'clock. I snuck upstairs, the dark filled only with my own breathing. I squatted by his door, pulled out the lockpick—it was a combination lock. I tried for more than ten minutes, my fingertips raw and bleeding. Finally, click. The lock opened. I pushed the door a crack—and a wave of stench, more intense than any I'd ever smelled, washed over me: putridity, embalming fluid, blood, burnt flesh.
I clapped a hand over my nose, fighting back the nausea, and pushed the door open. The apartment was in chaos: trash piled everywhere, scent test papers scattered, spice bottles lying on their sides. In the center of the room stood a huge sealed metal container, locked tight. Inside, there was definitely a corpse. I walked toward it step by step, my heart hammering. Just as I reached out to touch the container, footsteps sounded behind me—slow, steady.
I spun around in a panic. Zhou Yan stood there, no mask, no gloves, his face pale, sunken eye sockets, his gaze strange, like a man risen from hell. I glanced at the door—the odor detectors, not one of them had beeped.
I froze, a cold sweat breaking out all over my body, soaking my clothes. A trap. This was a trap, through and through. He'd known I would come all along, had turned off the detectors long ago, had been waiting for me to walk in. I'd fallen for it.