Lu Chen didn't sleep.
The scent of "First Snow" had colonized his studio. It clung to the feathers of his specimens and settled into the microscopic cracks of his scalpels. It was a clean, bitter, heartbreaking fragrance that kept the shadows at bay but brought a different kind of restlessness.
By 2:00 PM the next day, the chime of porcelain bottles announced her return.
Ning He walked in wearing a soft, oversized amber sweater, a sharp contrast to the grey industrial gloom. "You scrubbed the floors with high-grade alcohol this morning," she said, her eyes scanning the room. "Trying to erase me?"
Lu Chen turned from his workbench, a faint shadow of exhaustion under his eyes. "You're an interference, Ning He."
"I brought a peace offering." She held out a charred, withered flower. "Smoked bitter almond blossoms. Your lightning-struck wood has a lingering carbonized acidity. This is the only thing that can neutralize it without damaging the organic tissue."
Lu Chen reached out to take the flower, but Ning He didn't let go. For a second, their fingers brushed.
His skin was like polished marble—cold and bloodless. Hers was a surging, frantic warmth. The contact was like a short-circuit.
"Don't touch my tools," Lu Chen growled, his grip tightening around her wrist.
"What are you protecting, Lu Chen?" Ning He whispered, her face inches from his. "The dead don't care if they're touched. It's the living you're scared of."
He stared at her, his jaw tight. Just as he was about to shove her away, his eyes fell on the hawk on the table.
"The eyes," Ning He said softly. "You used the glass eyes of a scavenger. But this was a predator. Its pupils should be constricted with the intent to kill, not dilated with the hollow stare of the dying."
Lu Chen's grip loosened. He looked at the specimen. She was right. In his obsession with anatomical perfection, he had missed the soul of the kill.
"I don't see it the way you do," he admitted, his voice a low hum.
"Then let me help you," Ning He said, pulling a spray bottle from her bag. "I'll bring you the smell of the hunt, and in exchange, you teach me how to feel the bones. I need to know the shape of things for when my world goes dark."
She sprayed a fine mist into the air. Suddenly, the sterile warehouse smelled of wind, pine needles, and the electric thrill of a chase.
Lu Chen stood frozen in the center of the scent. For the first time in years, the wall he had built between himself and the world didn't just have a crack—it was starting to crumble.