Chapter 2: Chromatic Lies

The taser slipped from Jiang Se's grasp as the shadow dissolved into static snow across sixteen surveillance screens. Her studio's motion sensors remained obstinately silent, even as the lingering mist sketched phantom shapes against the stainless steel walls.

"Miss Jiang?" The delivery driver's voice carried through the broken window. "You want me to call someone?"

She forced a laugh, brittle as autumn leaves. "Midnight inspiration. Perfumers are eccentric, haven't you heard?"

The man retreated with a muttered curse about "crazy artists." Jiang Se waited until his truck's taillights vanished down the mountain road before collapsing against the scent organ—a massive structure of polished brass pipes and glass reservoirs that dominated the studio's west wall.

Her reflection wavered in the curved copper tubing: a woman with too many secrets and not enough sleep. The butterfly clip burned against her thigh through the pocket fabric. She'd stopped wearing pastel colors three years ago, along with hope.

Buzz.

The encrypted phone lit up on the workbench. New coordinates pulsed on its cracked screen—not the abandoned greenhouse this time, but the municipal crematorium.

Attachment: A PDF autopsy report for Chen Wei.

Jiang Se's gloved finger hovered over the delete button. This was how it began last time—anonymous tips, irresistible puzzles, then the fire that ate her future.

The corpse flower's mutated scent curled around her ankles. Path to Hades mingled with disinfectant, creating something new and dangerous. Her traitorous hands reached for the scent strips.

Crematorium No. 3, 4:17 AM

Frost etched floral patterns across the stainless steel drawers. Jiang Se's breath crystallized in the air as she pulled open Chamber 14. Chen Wei's naked corpse gleamed under her penlight, autopsy Y-incision stitched with black thread that squirmed like beetle legs.

"Sorry," she whispered, not sure who she meant. The scalpel glinted as she scraped residue from his nostrils.

The stench hit her—not the expected decay, but Christmas. Pine needles and cinnamon, with a base note of charred wood. Exactly like the candle Qin Shu had given her their first December together.

Her knees hit the freezing tiled floor. The scent strips fell from her numb fingers, fluttering down to rest on Chen Wei's chest. They turned the color of dried blood.

Footsteps.

Jiang Se froze. The night attendant's snores still rumbled from the lobby. These steps came from deeper within the refrigerated chamber—methodical, crunching ice crystals underfoot.

She dove behind a gurney as the lights flickered on.

"Interesting choice of pajamas."

The voice washed over her like spiced rum—smooth, intoxicating, laced with venom. Inspector Lu Chen leaned against the doorframe, tailored coat dusted with snowflakes that didn't melt. In his left hand gleamed a silver case the size of a cigarette pack.

Jiang Se glanced down at her paint-stained hoodie and mismatched gloves. "Breaking and entering isn't a good color on you, Inspector."

"Neither is grave robbery." He snapped open the case, revealing twelve glass vials filled with colored powders. "But here we are."

Her pulse quickened. The vials corresponded to a synesthete's chromatic scent scale—each hue representing an emotional resonance. Only three people in the city knew that system. Two were dead.

"Who taught you synesthetic coding?"

Lu Chen dipped a brush into indigo powder. "My sister. She could taste music." He began painting symbols around Chen Wei's body. "Drowned in her bathtub last summer. The water smelled like your 2021 limited edition Midnight Sonata."

The accusation hung between them, crystallizing in the subzero air. Jiang Se's gloves creaked as she clenched her fists. "I didn't—"

"Save it." He blew across the powder, creating a shimmering cloud that settled over the corpse. "The widow says Chen Wei came home reeking of hope. But your face when you smelled him..."

The indigo dust ignited.

No flame—just cold blue light that etched the corpse's skin with luminous patterns. Jiang Se's stomach lurched as she recognized them: the same vines strangling lilacs from the altered diary page.

Lu Chen's smile held no warmth. "Looks like someone's been gardening in Hades."

Interlude: Three Years Earlier

The greenhouse steamed with forbidden blossoms. Seventeen-year-old Jiang Se pressed her nose to the glass, fogging it with breath that smelled of lychee gum and naivety.

"Close your eyes." Qin Shu's hands settled on her shoulders, cool even through her cotton dress.

She obeyed, letting him guide her through the orchid maze. His new cologne intoxicated her—dark chocolate and lightning.

"Here." He placed something in her palm. Cold metal. Sharp edges.

Her eyes flew open. A butterfly hair clip glittered in the moonlight, its wings razor-sharp. "It's beautiful."

"Not yet." He slid the clip into her hair, drawing a single drop of blood. "But it will be."

Behind them, the corpse flower bud pulsed like a diseased heart.

Present

The crematorium lights stabilized, revealing Chen Wei's corpse now covered in glowing botanical tattoos. Lu Chen produced a DSLR camera from his coat.

"Don't!" Jiang Se grabbed his wrist. "This isn't—it can't be documented."

His skin burned fever-hot. "Afraid your boyfriend's handiwork will go viral?"

The encrypted phone chose that moment to vibrate. Lu Chen's gaze dropped to the screen. "Expecting a date?"

"Go to hell."

"Already there." He snapped a photo, the camera flash searing Jiang Se's retinas. When the afterimages faded, Chen Wei's body lay normal again, the glowing patterns transferred onto the digital image.

Lu Chen studied the screen. "These markings match my sister's autopsy photos."

Ice crept up Jiang Se's spine. "How many?"

"Enough to know you're either the artist..." He stepped closer, camera dangling like a hanged man from its strap. "Or the next canvas."

The corpse flower's scent intensified—Path to Hades now blended with something citrusy. Jiang Se's eyes watered. "Bergamot. You use bergamot aftershave?"

Lu Chen froze. "Since when do murderers notice—"

The explosion shattered the silence.

Not from the crematorium, but the direction of her studio. Orange flames clawed at the predawn sky, painting the snowdrifts in hellish hues. Jiang Se's legs gave out.

Lu Chen caught her elbow. "Looks like someone's cleaning house."

Her studio's security feed lit up his phone. Between tongues of fire, a shadow danced—too elongated, arms moving in impossible angles as it poured gasoline over her scent organ.

"We need to go." Lu Chen's breath warmed her ear. "Now."

But Jiang Se stood transfixed. The arsonist moved with familiar grace, pirouetting through the flames like Qin Shu used to dance in the greenhouse.

As the roof collapsed, the figure turned toward the camera. Flames reflected in its featureless face, revealing nothing but a butterfly-shaped void where eyes should be.