3:27 p.m.

The line
began to tighten.

Not naturally.

It was being—

pulled.

“East City. Old research sector.”

Kim Min Jung zoomed in the map.

A grey-white building
slowly came into focus.

No signage.
No lights.
No activity logs.

Three years ago,
a private research entity withdrew.

The entire floor
was sealed afterward.

Official record:

Equipment relocated. Area pending redevelopment.

No follow-up.

Too clean.

Clean enough to feel deliberate.

“No official entry or exit records in the past three months,” Kim Min Jung said.

“But there are power fluctuations,” Tan Chih Lin added.

The screen switched.

An unstable power graph
pulsed like a heartbeat.

“Intermittent supply,” he said. “Short bursts, high load. Not normal usage. It looks like remote activation.”

“What does that mean?” I asked.

“It means something is being turned on… from somewhere else.”

The air dropped another degree.

I looked at the building.

No life.

But something inside
was still breathing.

“Move in,” I said.

4:06 p.m.

East City Old Research Zone.

The wind was light.

Dust was everywhere.

This place didn’t feel abandoned.

It felt forgotten.

Perimeter security was already set.

We didn’t lock down the entire zone.

Because we didn’t know
if this line had been deliberately laid out for us.

The quieter we moved,
the more we might see
how the other side reacted.

Lee Wai Hing and Yim Bing led the entry team.

Four forward.

Two rear.

I stayed on command,
linked to Tan Chih Lin and Kim Min Jung.

“Entry?”

“East side door,” Lee Wai Hing said. “Old lock, but replaced core.”

“Not abandoned,” said Yim Bing.

“Disguised as abandoned.”

“Breach.”

“Copy.”

A soft click.

The door opened.

No alarm.

Too quiet.

Wrong.

“Move.”

Inside.

Dim light.

Dry air.

But—

there was a smell.

Not strong.

But present.

A scent that had already faded,
yet left a shadow behind.

Lee Wai Hing paused.

“You smell that?”

Yim Bing nodded.

“Faint.”

“But it’s here.”

They put on filtered masks.

“Proceed.”

Steps were light.

Dust on the floor—
but not thick.

Someone had been here.

Recently.

First level.

Empty.

Second.

Empty.

Third—

door half open.

“Hold.”

Yim Bing raised a hand.

Everyone froze.

She crouched.

Examined the door frame.

“No forced entry.”

“Opened from inside.”

She pushed the door open slowly.

A clearer trace of scent
drifted out.

Still not strong.

But more complete.

Like something that had lived in this space
long enough
to merge with the walls.

“Target location.”

The lab.

Not large.

But fully equipped.

Workbenches.

Glassware.

Filtration systems.

Gas lines.

Condensation units.

Sample cabinets.

This wasn’t temporary.

It had been used
over time.

Now—

it had stopped.

Like someone had just left.

The surfaces were wiped.

But not completely.

Deliberately left in a state
that looked like normal use.

“This isn’t a production line,” said Lee Wai Hing.

“It’s a test site,” said Yim Bing.

I spoke through comms.

“Divide and search. Prioritize gas sources, control systems, and data carriers.”

“Copy.”

They split.

One checked filtration.

One checked samples.

One scanned the benches.

Yim Bing moved to the center.

She studied—

the space.

Air vents.
Return flows.
Dwell points.

“This supports localized dispersion,” she said. “Not wide spread. 

Targeted.”

“Matches the scenes,” I said.

“Yes.”

“I’ve got something.”

Lee Wai Hing stopped at a cabinet.

A transparent sample box.

The label had been scratched out.

Inside—

several small vials.

No markings.

But the bottle design—

matched the sample vials
found in Xu Rou’s apartment.

“Bag it,” I said.

“Wait,” he replied.

“Why?”

“Too clean.”

He shone his light underneath.

“Pressure trigger below.”

The air turned cold instantly.

“Trap,” said Yim Bing.

“Remote or trigger?” I asked.

“Could be both.”

She scanned the floor.

The table legs.

The corners.

“Not a single point,” she said.

She looked up.

“It’s linked.”

“Meaning?”

“Touch one,
the whole floor goes.”

I paused.

“Withdraw?”

“No,” said Yim Bing. “We can disarm.”

“Time?”

“Three minutes.”

“Take it.”

The timer started.

Three minutes.

Too long.

Too short.

Yim Bing moved.

Not fast.

Precise.

A thin wire.

Two conduction strips.

A hidden micro-receiver under the cabinet.

She didn’t cut.

She rerouted.

Neutralized without triggering.

Lee Wai Hing handled the second point.

Third.

Fourth.

“One more,” he said.

“I see it,” she replied.

Her hand stopped.

“Wait.”

“What?”

“This isn’t an explosive.”

I frowned.

“Explain.”

“It’s more like a containment lock.”

And then—

Click.

The door shut.

“Damn.”

Clack.

Electronic lock engaged.

“System’s live,” Tan Chih Lin’s voice came through. “I’m getting abnormal signals.”

“Can you open it?” I asked.

“I’m in.”

His screen flooded with code.

“Not a simple door lock. Whole floor system—ventilation, locks, power.”

Yim Bing looked at the ceiling.

“If they release gas now—”

“They won’t,” I said.

“Why?”

“Because they want us to see this place.”

Silence.

Lee Wai Hing exhaled slowly.

“So this is—”

“A warning,” I said.

“Give me two minutes,” said Tan Chih Lin.

“You don’t have two.”

“One and a half.”

Keys hammered like rain.

“Are they watching?” Kim Min Jung asked.

“Signal hopping,” he said. “Multiple layers.”

“Cut it.”

“Can’t. They’re switching faster.”

Time.

1:08.

1:23.

1:30—

“Open!”

Click.

“Move!”

They exited.

The moment they cleared—

the entire floor went dark.

As if someone flipped a switch.

Or pressed pause.

5:02 p.m.

Perimeter safe zone.

Samples secured.

Air collected.

Structures scanned.

No injuries.

But everyone knew—

we weren’t there to discover.

We were allowed to see.

I sat in the mobile command unit.

Watching the footage.

Workbenches.
Glassware.
Filters.
Vials.
Vent systems.

And—

a partially burned sheet of paper.

Edges charred.

The center still legible.

I zoomed in.

Clean handwriting.

Not casual.

Recorded.

Title:

Project: Scent Veil

Below—
parameters.

Volatility duration.
Dispersion radius.
Neural response delay.

It read like—

a product test sheet.

I didn’t speak.

Just stared at the words.

Scent Veil.

Not scent.

A veil.

Something that hides what’s behind it.

Then Tan Chih Lin pulled up another scan.

The lower corner.

A name.

Incomplete.

But enough.

Song Ching

No one spoke.

The name appeared

for the first time.

Not rumor.

Not theory.

Written—

on the experiment record.

I leaned back slowly.

“Not a madman,” I said.

“Not a temporary group.”

“This is a project.”

No one disagreed.

Because everything now aligned.

Selection.
Contact.
Deployment.
Observation.
Adjustment.

This wasn’t a case.

It was a system.

I closed my eyes for a second.

Then opened them.

“Run Song Ching.”

“All immigration records.”

“All research history.”

“All links to fragrance chemistry, neuroscience, gas systems.”

“I want the origin.”

“Already running,” Tan Chih Lin said.

I nodded.

Then I looked at the final frame again—

the lab.

One detail.

At the edge.

Dark.

But there.

Not equipment.

Not shadow.

A camera.

Facing us.

I said quietly:

“He’s watching.”

No one asked who.

Because everyone knew.

“And—”

I paused.

“He wanted us to see.”

Silence.

Not uncertainty.

Certainty.

We didn’t find this place
because we were good.

We found it
because we were meant to.

I looked at the screen.

Project Scent Veil.

Song Ching.

The first real line.

And the first real door.

And behind that door—

there wouldn’t be just one man.

And not just one scent.

I said slowly:

“Welcome to their laboratory.”