My nose was bleeding again.
Warm liquid trickled down my philtrum, splattering into the sink in a jarring shade of red.
I tilted my head back, clamping a hand tight over my nose, yet the stench still crept into my throat.
It was a putrid, fishy reek mixed with an indescribable chemical tang—like rotting flesh steeped in formalin.
This was the seventh day of it. The vile odor from Zhou Yan's seventh-floor apartment had plagued me for a full month.
I am a perfumer. Others remember faces; I remember scents. Every whiff, every hint of a smell, is etched into my mind forever, impossible to forget.
Once, this was a gift. Now, it was a death sentence.
The doctor's words still rang in my ears like a detonation:
"If you keep inhaling this for three more days, your olfactory nerves will be permanently destroyed."
"You'll not only lose your sense of smell, but suffer permanent mental damage—insomnia and auditory hallucinations will only get worse."
I stared at my reflection in the mirror: sunken eye sockets rimmed with bloodshot veins, chapped lips, and a face as pale as paper.
For a month, I hadn't slept a single peaceful night. The moment I closed my eyes, the stench burrowed deeper, and my ears were filled with a constant buzz of hallucinations—sometimes a woman's sobs, sometimes the scrape of something being dragged across the floor.
I'd tried opening the windows to air out the room, but the wind only intensified the stench, seeping through every crack and crevice into every corner.
I'd tried masking it with perfume, but the expensive fragrance lingered in the air for less than three minutes before being swallowed whole by the putridity.
I'd gone to the property management office. The staff member pinched his nose, stood in the hallway for two minutes, and said he smelled nothing, that I was making a mountain out of a molehill.
"Kid, is your sense of smell just too sensitive?"
"It's not causing any actual harm—there's nothing we can do."
I slammed the blood-stained tissue in front of him. He glanced at it and shook his head anyway.
"You're probably just suffering from internal heat. It has nothing to do with the guy on the seventh floor."
He turned and left, not even waiting an extra second for the elevator.
I'd called the police, dialling 110 three times before two officers arrived. They banged on Zhou Yan's door—no answer. They sniffed the hallway and said there was no obvious smell.
One officer clapped me on the shoulder.
"Kid, stop overthinking it. You're probably just stressed out, having hallucinations."
"We can't break down the door for no reason. Just tough it out, or find a way to move."
Move? I laughed bitterly. If I had the money to move, I would have left long ago. I'd just paid the rent last month, with only a few hundred yuan left for living expenses. I was counting every penny for meals—where would I get the money for a new place and a security deposit?
I'd asked my neighbors. The aunt next door looked at me like I was insane.
"What stench? I walk this hallway every day and smell nothing!"
"You young folks—have you lost your mind from mixing perfumes? Hurry to the hospital and get checked out."
The guy on the fifth floor just slammed his door in my face.
"Leave me out of this. I don't want to get dragged into your trouble."
No one believed me. Everyone thought I was the one who was abnormal—too sensitive of a nose, overthinking, losing my mind.
Only I knew the truth. The stench was real. It was an invisible net, trapping me in this tiny rental apartment, slowly eroding my sense of smell, my sanity, my life.
Late at night, I sat on the edge of the bed, a strip of scent test paper clenched in my hand. My nose itched again, and blood started to flow. The hallucinations returned—this time, the dull, slow scrape of a heavy object being dragged, coming down from the seventh floor.
A cold chill ran through my body. I knew if this went on, I would go completely mad.
Either I made Zhou Yan stop, or I would be destroyed entirely. There was no third option.
To survive, to keep my sense of smell, I had to find an opening. To find the devil hiding on the seventh floor, the one behind all of this.
I began to stake out the hallway. Every night, I hid behind the fire hydrant in the pitch black— the motion-sensor lights were broken, only the emergency lights casting a faint green glow. Mosquitoes bit me all over, leaving itchy welts. When sleep threatened to overtake me, I pinched myself hard, forcing my eyes open. When I was hungry, I gnawed on a dry piece of bread I'd brought along.
Day one, day two, day three, day four, day five. Just as I was about to collapse, at two in the morning, the door to Zhou Yan's seventh-floor apartment opened.
I held my breath instantly, every nerve in my body taut as a bowstring. A far more intense wave of stench billowed out from the crack in the door, nearly making me retch.
A man stepped out—tall, dressed in black, a mask covering his face, black gloves on his hands. He carried two bulging black sealed bags. His movements were lightning fast: open the door, grab the trash, walk to the hallway bin, bend down, drop the bags, turn around. Not once did he look up, not a single sound escaped his lips.
I stared at his every move, counting the seconds in my head: one, two, three. He'd been outside for less than three minutes.
The moment the door clicked shut, the hallway fell silent again, only the lingering stench hanging in the air.
I slouched against the fire hydrant, soaked in sweat.
I'd found it. I'd finally found my opening.
Every Wednesday, at two in the morning, he stepped out to throw out the trash. Those three minutes were my only chance, my only hope of survival.
I tightened my grip on the scent test paper, my gaze hardening.
Zhou Yan.
Next Wednesday night.
We settle the score.