The word fire pricked the deepest shadow of my childhood. I grew up in an orphanage, and a single fire burned everything to the ground—killed the caregivers, killed my friends. I was a survivor, and a prisoner of the nightmare it left behind.
I remembered the smell of that fire, etched into my bones: charred wood, charred cloth, charred skin, mixed with gasoline, with sobs, with despair. I would never forget it, not in a lifetime.
Now, it had become my weapon of counterattack.
My goal was clear: brew a scent as close as possible to the fire scene of that day, seep it into Zhou Yan's apartment, shatter his psychological defenses, make him lose control, break down, show his hand.
But the obstacles loomed like a mountain. I remembered the scent, but dared not recreate it with precision—it was too unique, too sharp. One wrong move, and he would realize at once it was intentional, lash out in a frenzy, tear off all pretense, and leave me with no place to hide.
I sat at the table, staring at the spices spread out before me, my hands shaking. Memories flooded in: heat waves, thick smoke, sobs, flames. I clutched my head, gasping for air, the hallucinations returning—the crackle of fire, cries, explosions. I bit down hard on my lip, forcing myself to calm down. I could not be afraid. I had to survive, to keep my sense of smell, to win.
I took a deep breath and began to mix. First, charred wood: I found dry sandalwood shavings, charred them, ground them into powder. Second, charred cloth: an old cotton cloth, burned half-way, leaving a hint of burnt sweetness. Third, the key—gasoline, faint, light, not too strong. Too strong, and it would be fake, easy to see through.
I added it drop by drop, once, twice, three times… dozens of times. Each time, I brought it to my nose, comparing it to the memory of the fire's scent. Blood dripped from my nose time and again; I wiped it with my sleeve, smearing it across my face, my eyes bloodshot.
Finally, when the last hint of burnt fragrance mixed with faint gasoline drifted out, my body trembled. This was it. Exactly the same as the fire at the orphanage all those years ago.
I put the brewed spice powder into a thin, breathable cloth bag—thin enough for the scent to drift out slowly. Late at night, I snuck upstairs,
my breath light in the dark, and set the bag gently by the doormat of his apartment. Then I took the pungent scent I'd brewed earlier, the one that could bypass his neutralizing perfume, and sprayed it lightly on the bag, ensuring the scent would seep in, ensuring the neutralizing perfume could not block it.
When I was done, I retreated quickly, hiding back behind the fire hydrant. I lay awake all night, staring at his door, staring at the small cloth bag.
Dawn broke. Seven in the morning. I snuck upstairs. The small cloth bag was gone from the doormat. My heart jumped. He'd taken it. He'd smelled it. I pressed my back to the wall, holding my breath, listening for sounds from inside. No smashing, no coughing—only one sound: stifled sobs, low, hoarse, painful, like a beast with its throat clamped shut, like a decade of pain finally breaking free.
I stood outside the door, a cold chill seizing my body. It worked. The scent of fire had hit his weakness. He was afraid, in pain, falling apart. The stench from inside the apartment stopped—for a full half day, it did not drift out again.
I leaned against the wall and slowly slid to the floor. Zhou Yan. You have something to fear too. You have a past you dare not face, a nightmare that haunts you too. This is only the beginning.