The streets, once seeming plunged into "slumber," now revealed themselves alive with faint murmurs—whispers from apartments, the drone of televisions, the buzz of phones—proof that many were still awake. What had appeared empty of life teemed with unseen movement: insects rustling in corners, small animals skittering in gutters. Sounds that days ago required intense focus to detect now flooded his awareness unbidden, woven into his sensory "database" as context for his surroundings.
Compared to hearing, smell brought a stranger, fresher novelty. Many scents were entirely new to him. He catalogued their origins, tagging each with a label, "uploading" them into his repository—much as every adult maintains such a database of experience. Like recognizing the sulfurous tang of a fart in a crowd, or distinguishing a neighbor's high heels from slippers by their footfalls overhead. Now, with his senses vastly amplified, Ken needed to "update" this database; only then could his enhancements truly serve him.
…
Ken halted abruptly, his gaze fixed on the eastern street corner. It was 11:47 p.m.—some blocks still bustled, others lay deserted. He stood in a quieter section, sparse with shops and residents, dotted with old houses awaiting demolition. Past 10 p.m., few pedestrians ventured here; only the occasional delivery rider on an electric bike passed by. He had intended to head that way—quieter, shadowy places sharpened his senses, filtering out urban clamor to aid targeted training.
But now he hesitated. A scent lingered in the air—blood, and likely human. Only after the attack on the couple downstairs and his heightened olfaction could he distinguish human blood from rabbit or chicken. Yet from this distance, amid the city's olfactory chaos, he couldn't be certain. If human, what accident had unfolded there?
Ken wanted no more trouble. The last incident had been unavoidable—right under his nose, involving acquaintances. But now… If there was trouble, he could simply walk the other way. He didn't even know what had happened; it wasn't like abandoning someone to die. Besides, maybe he'd misread the scent—not human blood at all? Or perhaps someone had scraped a knee playing?
With that thought, he took two steps in the opposite direction. Two seconds later, he sighed and turned toward the suspected bloodshed. He knew his nature: if he didn't investigate, the mystery would linger in his mind, a knot he couldn't untie for months, maybe years. Not guilt over missing a rescue, but sheer curiosity…
…
The source of the scent lay barely thirty meters away. Rounding the corner at a brisk pace, he spotted a figure collapsed amid a pile of construction debris by the curb. It was a person—really a person.
Ken had no time to savor his accuracy in identifying human blood. He pulled out his phone to dial 110 while scanning the area, approaching cautiously. His enhanced senses told him the attacker was long gone.
Police arrived soon after, followed by an ambulance. As the first discoverer and caller, Ken was detained for questioning. The initial officer merely verified his identity and asked for a brief account before telling him to wait. Moments later, a detective arrived—a familiar face. Detective Chen, who had taken Ken's statement after the downstairs attack. Captain Zhao, as Ken recalled, couldn't forget him; his features were too distinctive.
"You know the victim? How'd the killer get away?" Zhao asked, sizing Ken up. Given Ken's prowess, he should've stood a chance even against an armed attacker.
Ken hurried to clarify: "I don't know the injured person. I was just passing by, heard a noise, and came to check…"
Zhao pressed: "Out this late—where were you headed?"
"Oh, I was going to Fuxiang Street for some grilled meat," Ken said.
"You still live on Huawen Street? Walked all that way? That's quite a distance," Zhao remarked.
"No rush—just killing time, walking for exercise," Ken replied.
Zhao nodded, then drilled him on the details of discovering the scene and calling for help—far more thorough than the first officer. Truthfully, Ken hadn't heard any noise; by the time he caught the scent, the attacker had surely fled. Otherwise, his acute hearing would've picked up something. But he couldn't admit that—why else would he be in such a remote spot? To urinate?
This time, Zhao didn't take Ken back to the station. After questioning, he left a card: "Might need you to assist with the investigation later. Call me if you remember anything."
Ken agreed and prepared to leave. While answering Zhao's questions, he'd overheard nearby officers at an ATM across the street. With his enhanced hearing, he caught their conversation: the victim had just withdrawn money before the attack, likely tailed from there.
Ken started back along his original route but changed his mind after a few steps. A sudden idea struck him, one he wanted to try.