This week felt longer than a month.
The stench lingered, and my nose grew more sensitive by the day—a slight movement, and blood would flow. The hallucinations became more frequent; sometimes, I even heard the drip of water from Zhou Yan's apartment, a steady tap, tap, tap like a countdown.
I dared not let my guard down. Every day, I leaned by the window, staring at his door on the seventh floor. It never opened, as if no one lived inside. But I knew better. A devil hid there, and the truth behind the stench with him.
I began to prepare. I dug out all my scent test papers—the most absorbent kind, the ones that could lock in any trace of odor. I folded them neatly and slipped them into my pocket, then put on a black shirt to blend into the dark. I even scouted the hallway in advance: the fire hydrant was the perfect hiding spot, shielding my body, less than five meters from Zhou Yan's door. Run over, brush the trash bags, run back. If I moved fast enough, I would never be caught.
Waiting is always an eternity.
On Wednesday night, I didn't eat—afraid I might make a sound, or retch from nervousness if I did. At eleven, I hid behind the fire hydrant. The hallway was pitch black, the emergency light's green glow painting the walls an ashen white. I held my breath, ears pricked, listening for every sound. When a neighbor came home late, their footsteps echoing from downstairs, I clapped a hand over my mouth, daring not make a peep.
Time ticked by: midnight, one o'clock, ten to two. My heart hammered in my chest, so loud I thought it would burst, my palms slick with sweat. I clenched the test papers in my pocket, my fingertips white from the pressure.
Two o'clock sharp.
Click.
A soft creak of a door opening, from the seventh floor.
I froze, every nerve stretched to its limit. I slowly peeked out, following the green glow. A crack had appeared in Zhou Yan's door, and a wave of stench—far stronger, far more acrid than before—washed over me instantly.
I fought back the nausea, biting my lip hard. The man stepped out, the same as last time: black clothes, black mask, black gloves, two bulging black sealed bags in his hands, heavy by the look of them. His movements were still lightning fast, no glance up, no scan of the area, walking straight for the hallway bin.
I stared at his back—straight, his gait steady, unhurried, as if he was doing something routine, something ordinary.
I knew the moment had come.
Just as he bent down to drop the trash into the bin, I took a deep breath and burst out from behind the fire hydrant, light and fast on my feet. Wind whistled in my ears; I could hear my own heartbeat, and Zhou Yan's faint breathing.
I darted to the bin, pulled the test papers from my pocket in a flash, and brushed them against the surface of the sealed bags he'd just set on the bin's edge. My fingertips felt a faint coldness, and a hint of an odor, almost imperceptible.
"Who's there?"
A low voice of questioning cut through the silence. I jumped, spinning around in a panic. Zhou Yan was staring at me. His mask was still on; I couldn't see his expression, but I could feel his gaze—cold, like an ice pick piercing my skin.
I didn't dare think, clutching the test papers tight as I turned and ran, my heart threatening to leap from my chest, my legs weak with fear. I sprinted back behind the fire hydrant, clapping a hand over my mouth, daring not make a sound.
I heard his footsteps approach, one, two, three—closer and closer. A cold chill ran through me, my teeth chattering. I was done for. Had he seen me? I closed my eyes, braced for discovery.
But the footsteps stopped a meter from the fire hydrant, then slowly turned, and retreated.
Click.
Zhou Yan's door shut. The hallway fell silent again.
I slouched against the hydrant, soaked in sweat, gasping for air. The test paper in my palm was crumpled into a ball. I dared not go home at once, afraid he'd shut the door on purpose, waiting for me inside. I squatted there
for another ten minutes, making sure there was no movement, then slowly stood and tiptoed back to my apartment.
The moment I closed the door, my legs gave way, and I slid to the floor, my back drenched in cold sweat. I trembled as I unfolded the test paper and brought it to my nose.
A faint odor drifted into my nostrils—not the overwhelming stench, but a light, acrid chemical tang. I closed my eyes, sifting through every memory of scent stored in my mind. I'd smelled this before, once, when I'd formulated a disinfectant perfume for a hospital.
It was the smell of embalming fluid—formalin mixed with other preservatives. Faint, hidden, undetectable to anyone but someone with a memory for scents like mine.
My eyes flew open, a cold chill seizing my body. Embalming fluid. It was on Zhou Yan's trash.
Could the stench be the smell of rotting flesh?
The thought took root in my mind and refused to leave. I stared at the test paper, my gaze turning cold and resolute.
Zhou Yan. You did this on purpose. What are you hiding in that seventh-floor apartment?
No matter what it is, no matter what the truth behind the stench is—I will find out. I will make you pay.
Because I don't want to die. I don't want to lose my sense of smell, my sanity, everything I have, for no reason at all.