The first hint of it came at dawn.
Leon had always been a light sleeper, trained by years of paranoia and cases that demanded vigilance. Wolfe, on the other hand, could sleep through gunfire and fireworks, his body so used to chaos that it considered anything less as background noise.
But not this smell.
It sliced through the air like an invisible blade, sharp and rancid. Not strong enough to gag, not yet, but unmistakably wrong.
Leon opened his eyes and scanned the small chamber. The walls of carved stone still glistened with condensation, as though the underground temple itself was sweating. The sheets were damp. Wolfe stirred, brow twitching, nostrils flaring.
"Do you smell that?" Leon whispered.
Wolfe's lips curled into a grimace before he even opened his eyes. "Rot."
He sat up, hair a messy tangle, and pressed his palms into his face. "God, it's like a butcher left his trash out for a week."
Leon frowned. "It wasn't here last night."
