Everyone carries a unique scent, a realization Ken had grown acutely aware of since his olfactory senses had sharpened. Tonight, however, he had only been awake for a few hours, and his ability to distinguish between various smells was still raw. At the crime scene earlier, he had wondered if he could track the attacker by their scent—but without a scent sample, he had been unable to pick out the attacker's trail from the mix of odors. By the time the police arrived, the crowd had only made it harder to trace.
Still, Ken had overheard the officers mention that the weapon hadn't been found. The attacker must have left in a hurry, without wiping the blood from the blade—meaning the weapon (or the cloth used to clean it) might still be nearby, carrying the victim's blood scent.
An idea sparked in Ken's mind: could he track the attacker or the weapon using the blood scent? The strongest concentration of the victim's blood led back to the crime scene, but Ken had no intention of returning there. Instead, he chose another direction.
His reasoning was simple: by the time he'd found the victim, the attacker had been gone for less than three minutes. Since Ken hadn't seen any suspicious figures or heard panicked footsteps before catching the scent, the attacker must have fled in the opposite direction. Narrowing it down, two paths lay ahead—one leading to a busy main road (with plenty of cameras and witnesses, unlikely for an attacker who'd chosen a secluded spot to strike) and one narrow alley. Ken picked the alley.
He didn't expect to follow the blood scent directly—doing so would lead him back to the crime scene. Instead, he put himself in the attacker's shoes, choosing turns instinctively as he walked.
Hours passed. The blood scent from the crime scene had grown faint, and Ken was about to give up when a trace of something "familiar"—the victim's blood—cut through the cacophony of urban smells. It was faint, almost dissipated, but its direction was different from the crime scene. He'd found his target.
Following the scent, Ken wandered for over ten minutes before pinpointing the source: an open garbage bin. The bin, used by nearby residents for household waste, had torn plastic bags spilling soup, food scraps, and other filth. The stench hit him like a wall—his enhanced sense of smell made it almost unbearable—but he forced himself to focus, locking onto the faint blood scent.
Hesitant (he had no obligation to investigate), Ken still wanted to confirm if the scent led to something relevant—maybe the weapon. Sighing, he shooed away the flies swarming the bin and began rummaging.
Soon, he found it: a pair of blood-stained cotton gloves. Not the weapon, but still evidence. Ken didn't touch them with his bare hands; he grabbed a plastic bag from the ground, picked up the gloves, and held them to his nose. A mix of foul odors (rotten food, garbage) hit him, but beneath it, he detected a faint human scent—sweat, sebum, and other skin secretions trapped inside the gloves. The victim's blood was unmistakable, even without looking.
Ken debated telling Detective Zhao about the gloves but ultimately decided against it. Explaining how he'd found them would be tricky, and he figured the police would find the bin soon enough. He tossed the gloves back into the garbage and left.
Though he had the attacker's scent, Ken found nothing else after searching the area. The city was too full of distractions—cars, people, other smells—to track further.
The next day, Ken messaged Detective Zhao using the number he'd been given, asking about the case. He didn't expect much—police rarely shared updates on ongoing investigations—but Zhao surprised him with a photo: the suspect's identity had been confirmed overnight. The man, released from prison in March, had moved to the city in April and was now wanted for murder (the victim had died en route to the hospital). His photo and details had been sent to stations, airports, and hotels, and local TV would air a wanted notice soon. Zhao reminded Ken to call if he saw the suspect.
Ken figured the suspect was as good as caught. In a city of over ten million, with cameras everywhere and strict ID requirements, a fugitive with a murder charge wouldn't last long. He didn't bother using the scent to track the man—finding a needle in a haystack would be easier.
But what Ken didn't expect was that he'd run into the suspect before he was caught.