The Scent of a Mistake

The plan to get some sleep did not go well.

It was still impossible, and besides, it was too early for young people like Elion and Jordan to go to bed at this hour. Elion sat on a rock outside the cave. He held his phone up, trying to connect with civilization. It was a miracle that he managed to get a signal out here, even though it was just a bar, considering it was so unreliable even in the city.

Still, he wasn't about to question his luck. He had one shot at this. The signal was not strong enough to go online, especially to read about what happened at the club, but it was good enough for him to text his mother. He quickly typed out a message to his mother.

Elion: [Mom, I'm spending the night at Jordan's.]

It was short, simple, and hopefully believable.

It was also a little ridiculous.

Twenty years old, and here he was, texting his mother like some high schooler, asking for permission to stay out. What was he even doing?

A loud burst of laughter erupted behind him.

Jordan. Of course.

"Oh, man. That's adorable." He laughed and clutched his stomach. "You're in the woods, avoiding beast-men, working with a cowboy from another world—and the first thing you do is text your mom?"

He smiled and shook his head. "You're a good boy."

Elion sighed, already regretting every life choice that had led him to this moment. "Look, I only have one mother. And after everything she's been through, the least I can do is remove one worry from her list."

Jordan wiped a fake tear from his eye. "Wow. That's beautiful, man. I think I might cry."

Elion chuckled. "You should cry. Because, unlike you, I actually have a functioning moral compass."

Jordan held up a hand. "Hey, don't lump me into that."

He then looked at the night sky and added, "I just think if my parents ever found out I was out in the middle of the woods with a cowboy and being chased by beast-men, she'd just tell me not to be an idiot and go back home. No follow-up questions."

Listening to the banter, Ronan—who had been silent for the past hour—let out a small chuckle. Both of them turned to him in surprise.

Jordan raised an eyebrow. "Sorry? Anything funny?"

Ronan shook his head and smiled. "Nothing. Just… you two. It's been a while since I've been around people who argue about dumb things like this."

Jordan placed a hand over his chest dramatically. "Dumb? Excuse you, sir. This is the very foundation of human connection."

Ronan shook his head again, still amused. The fire crackled softly, casting long shadows against the cave walls. It didn't do much for warmth, but it kept the cold at arm's length, which was good enough for now.

Elion and Jordan got in and sat just close enough to the flame to feel its heat but not close enough to pretend they were actually comfortable. The floor was hard. And somewhere, far off in the trees beyond the cave, something let out a distant howl.

All in all, it is a perfect setting for total relaxation.

Ronan sat a little farther from the fire, leaning against the wall like someone who'd done this a thousand times before. His cloak draped loosely around his shoulders, his hat still somehow perched perfectly on his head despite everything.

Elion studied him for a moment.

There was something about Ronan that didn't quite add up. The combat suit was high-tech, layered with faint, shifting lines of energy. The cloak clearly had enchantments woven into it. The sack that held the rings? Absolutely not made on Earth. And the gun on his hip practically hummed with the kind of power that made your bones itch.

But the hat? That old, dust-covered cowboy hat just sat there like it had no idea it was breaking the aesthetic.

Elion finally spoke up, pointing a thumb at Ronan. "So… is the hat magic, too?"

Jordan raised an eyebrow, mildly surprised. "Huh. Good question. That can totally be seen as a fashion crime."

Ronan glanced up. He didn't smile, exactly—but there was something behind his eyes.

A weight. A story.

"Sort of," he said. "It's not enchanted. Not like the rest of my gear."

Elion tilted his head. "Then why wear it?"

Ronan looked down at the fire. His voice came quieter this time. "It belonged to my master. The one who taught me how to survive. How to fight. How to use my ring."

There was a pause. Not awkward. Just… heavy.

"He was a wanted man back in my world. People feared him. Hunted him. But he always said fear wasn't something to run from—it was something to manage. Something you could use."

He reached up and adjusted the brim slightly, almost without realizing it. "This hat's the only thing I have left of him."

Neither Elion nor Jordan said anything for a moment.

Eventually, Jordan muttered, "And here I am, making fun of it…"

Ronan gave a small, tired smirk. "It's okay. You weren't wrong. It does look ridiculous."

Then, just like that, the tension broke.

Elion shifted where he sat, letting out a long sigh. He was about to say something when his entire expression shifted—his back straightened, eyes suddenly wide.

"Crap."

Jordan looked up sharply. "What? What is it?"

"My bag," Elion muttered, voice dropping. "My groceries. I left them."

Jordan blinked. "Okay. And?"

Elion turned to him, his voice tight. "I left them back at the alley. Probably near the bull-man's body. Maybe even right next to it."

Jordan stared at him. "So you left some food behind. Big deal."

"No," Elion said, standing up a little. "Not about the food. My backpack was there. IDs. Everything."

Jordan's expression dropped. "Oh no."

Ronan, who had been listening silently, finally leaned forward. "That's a problem."

Elion turned to him, guilt twisting in his stomach. "So, worst case scenario, the cops find it and think I was part of that mess, right?"

Ronan shook his head. "That's not the worst-case scenario."

Elion and Jordan exchanged a glance.

Jordan frowned. "Then what is?"

Ronan's eyes narrowed slightly. "The beast-men get it."

For a second, the fire seemed to crackle louder. Or maybe that was just the silence that followed.

"They have an incredible sense of smell," Ronan said. "Far beyond any normal predator. But it's more than that. If one of them gets a strong enough scent, they can share it."

"Like… pass it around?" Elion asked slowly.

"Exactly. Think of it like scent memory. Once it's passed along, they can all track you. Doesn't matter how far you run."

Jordan looked like someone had just unplugged his soul. "So, wait… they could literally sniff out where we are?"

Ronan nodded once. "That bag is like a flag waving in the wind. If it's not already in their hands, it will be soon."

Elion felt a knot forming in his chest. He sat back down, rubbing his face. "I didn't mean to leave it. Everything was happening so fast—"

"I know," Ronan said calmly. "It wasn't a mistake. It was a moment."

Jordan threw his hands up. "So what now? We wait for them to find it, and then we get mauled in our sleep?"

"No," Ronan said. "We prepare. You two rest. I'll keep watch tonight. If they find the bag, I'll know. We'll move."

***

The air was thick with the stench of blood and decay. The remains of the bear-man and the bull-man were still lying in the ruined alleyway, but they were no longer alone. Scattered among the rubble and broken pavement were several fresh corpses—police officers, their bodies twisted unnaturally, throats torn open. Their weapons were still in their hands, useless against the monsters that had torn them apart.

Standing over them were three massive figures—ape-like beast-men. They had broad shoulders and thick fur covering their muscular bodies, but unlike the bear-man and the bull-man, their faces were more human, disturbingly so. Their sharp eyes shone in the moonlight. They looked amused and satisfied.

One of the three was the largest and held a backpack in his clawed hand. He looked at the woman standing a few feet away. She had golden eyes and long hair that seemed to shine in the low light.

It was Leo. She was different.

Unlike the others, she wasn't covered in fur. Her body was mostly human in form—tall, lean, and dangerously poised. The only clear sign of her beastly nature was her feline-like golden irises and the quiet but undeniable sense of authority she carried.

"Lady Leo," The ape-man said as he stepped forward, extending the bag toward her. "We found this near the body."

His voice was gruff, but there was respect in his tone. "This is the only thing that did not belong to our men."

Leo took the bag without a word. She lifted it slightly, her nose twitching as she brought it closer. She turned it over in her hands, scanning it, her sharp eyes narrowing slightly. Her fingers brushed against the plastic, feeling for something more than just its physical presence.

Then, she inhaled.

At first, all she picked up was the mundane scent of the fabrics and materials.

Useless.

But underneath that—there it was.

A human scent. Distinct. Faint but fresh.

Leo's pupils narrowed into thin slits. This wasn't just any human. This was someone who had been here recently. She closed her eyes and inhaled deeper, filtering through the stench of death, blood, and burning asphalt. And then, something clicked. The scent disappeared right there. Right at that spot.

Leo's eyes snapped open, her smirk returning. "Interesting…"

They couldn't trace Ronan by scent alone—at least, not under normal conditions. That was part of what made him so hard to track. His body scent was constantly masked—buried under layers of smoke, dust, herbs, and whatever magical concealment techniques he'd learned from whatever world he came from. It wasn't accidental, either. Ronan was good at it. Too good. Every trace of him was like a ghost trail—faint, misleading, and gone before you could lock onto it.

But blood?

That was different.

Blood couldn't lie. Especially not his.

The moment he started bleeding, all that camouflage went out the window. His blood carried something stronger, something more distinct—energy, power, scent, maybe even a signature that couldn't be hidden once it hit the air. And beast-men? They were built to smell things like that. That was why it was so hard to trace Ronan… until he was injured. And now that someone else was with him?

Yeah. That changed everything.

The ape-men waited as she processed it, knowing better than to interrupt.

She tossed the grocery bag onto a nearby corpse. "The human who carried this… was with Ronan."

The largest of the monkey-men narrowed his eyes. "You're sure?"

Leo tilted her head slightly, her smirk widening. "You doubt me?"

He quickly looked away.

She pointed to the spot where the smell just stopped. "It disappeared right there. He must have been using teleportation, and as far as I know, only Ronan and the Zodiacs can do that."

Her golden eyes gleamed in the moonlight, amused yet calculating. "And whoever this is… disappeared at the exact same time."

The ape-men exchanged glances.

"More people?" one of them asked. "Are they Ronan's allies from this world?"

Leo flexed her fingers, rolling her shoulders. "That remains to be seen. But one thing is certain…"

Her golden eyes flickered toward the distant tree line, her smirk turning razor-sharp.

"They can't run forever."

***

New Orleans – Midnight

The city wasn't asleep. It was quiet—but not in the peaceful, midnight kind of way. It was the kind of silence that pressed against the windows, crawled down the empty streets, and settled like a weight in every living room.

People had turned off their lights. Not to save energy. Not to sleep. But because something had clawed its way into the heart of the city, and nobody wanted to be noticed when it came back.

All it took was two videos.

The first, captured on a grainy phone camera from the Xylo Club, had been sent around like wildfire. The screen shook violently—blurry bodies running, drinks shattering on the floor, someone screaming in the background, "What is that thing?!"

The camera caught only seconds of the monster. Enough.

A hulking, misshapen figure crashing through steel. A flash of claws. Someone being thrown into a wall hard enough to crack it. Then, the feed is cut.

The second video came from a police bodycam. A dark alley. Gunfire. Shouting. Then—nothing. Just a flicker of red and blue lights bouncing off something huge. The final frame caught a hand—a monstrous, furred hand—reaching for the camera. And that was all the world needed.

By midnight, the city was on lockdown.

Police flooded the streets. Soldiers arrived by the truckload, blocking intersections with armored vehicles. Helicopters circled overhead, shining searchlights down onto rooftops. Sirens didn't stop. And behind closed curtains, people whispered to each other, too afraid to turn on the news but even more afraid not to. Those who did watch the news saw chaos. Reporters stood stiffly in front of flickering screens, struggling to describe what they'd seen without sounding insane.

Words like unidentified assailants, possible bioengineering, and domestic terrorism floated around like smoke. But no one had answers.

Only fear.

And speculation.

Across the city, TVs and phones played the same story again and again—security footage, witness interviews, pixelated freeze-frames. And in every clip, two faces started to appear more and more often. One was a young man with messy hair, a slim build, and a quiet face that hadn't aged into adulthood yet. The other was slightly broader, louder, his smile a little cockier.

Elion Hayes. Jordan Walker.

At first, they were only mentioned.

Seen leaving the club. Caught running from the alley before the second incident. People described them as panicked, shouting about monsters. It was strange—but not unheard of. Until someone connected the two scenes.

Two locations. Two events. Same two people.

The narrative shifted.

Now, they weren't witnesses. They were suspects.

A talk show host called them key persons of interest.

A former police chief, interviewed over the phone, said he "wouldn't be surprised if they were involved in some cult activity."

On a news channel, a reporter stated:

"Sources suggest these two young men may have been at the center of the chaos."

Elion's yearbook photo flashed on one screen. Jordan's old football team photo on another. And just like that, their names were out in the open. Two boys who hadn't even had time to process what they'd seen—were now declared wanted by people who hadn't seen anything at all.

Back at police headquarters, the command center buzzed with tension. A large screen displayed the alley footage on a loop, paused at a single, blurry moment.

A swirl of light.

Two figures stepping into it.

Vanishing.

"They disappeared into that?" someone muttered, staring at the glowing shape.

The lead investigator—a woman with dark circles under her eyes and a voice too tired for how sharp it still sounded—pointed to the screen. "Run facial matches. Get their addresses. Friends. Families. Everything."

Another officer hesitated. "Are we treating them as hostile?"

She didn't answer right away.

Finally, she said, "Until we know what really happened at that club… they're suspects."

A silence fell over the room. No one disagreed.

Farther out in the suburbs, parents double-checked their locks. Teenagers who had been posting dance videos that morning now scrolled in silence, watching the Xylo footage again and again.

No one was dancing anymore.

Somewhere in the city, a single porch light flicked off. And in the quiet that followed, the whole city held its breath, waiting for the next scream.