The power of the clique was far greater than I had imagined. Many of them had changed their names and faces, hidden their tracks, destroyed all evidence. Tracking them with only scent samples was no easy task. And their remnants were still following us, seeking revenge, seeking to silence us forever.
I sent my sister to live with the former orphanage caregiver, in a hidden place, to ensure her safety. Then I worked with the witnesses myself to hunt down every powerful man involved in the crime.
I used my gift—my sense of smell, my perfume-making skills—to craft a scent tracer for each of their unique odors, spraying it on the witnesses' cars. The tracers would draw near the target scents automatically, pinpointing their locations with precision.
One man reeked of sandalwood, another of cigar smoke, a third of a rare medicinal scent. I crafted a tracer for each, and tracked them one by one.
For more than half a month, we hunted them down, one after another. Every powerful man who had participated in the orphanage arson was found, captured, and brought to justice.
Blood debts must be paid in blood. The children who had burned to death, the lives that had been destroyed, the truth that had been buried for so long—finally, they saw the light of day.
I stood in the sunlight, my sense of smell still sharp, but no longer tortured by the stench, no longer haunted by nightmares.