I had done many things that broke the law: fighting back with scents, breaking into Zhou Yan's home, investigating privately. I turned myself in to the police voluntarily, confessing everything truthfully.
But I had exposed a shocking case, unmasked all the powerful murderers, and my actions were acts of self-defense driven by desperation. The court handed down a lenient sentence: one year in prison, suspended for one year.
I moved out of that old apartment building, to a quiet, fresh-smelling neighborhood with no strange odors, to live with my sister. I returned to work as a perfumer, no longer crafting acrid or hallucinogenic scents, only perfumes that soothe trauma, that heal the soul—using my craft to support my sister and myself.
I walked with her every day, talked with her, took her back to the orphanage to see the children who were just like us back then. Her depression slowly lifted; she dared to go out, to speak, to laugh again.
My sense of smell recovered little by little, with regular treatment, no longer assailed by harsh stimuli. The stench of the past, the fire, the nightmares—they faded away, bit by bit.
I had finally stepped out of the prison of scents.