The fragile peace of the warehouse was shattered not by a storm, but by the synchronized purr of three black sedans.
Inside, Lu Chen was staring at a half-finished skeletal wing, the "Deep Sea" scent from yesterday still ghosting in his lungs. Ning He was late. She was usually exactly on time, a trait he had come to rely on with a frightening regularity.
Then, the iron door didn't groan—it was pushed open with the practiced arrogance of someone who owned the air they breathed.
"This place smells like a morgue, Lu Chen. Have you finally decided to rot away in silence?"
A man stepped into the light. He was older, perhaps in his late fifties, wearing a charcoal grey suit that cost more than Lu Chen's entire inventory of rare pigments. His face was a mirror of Lu Chen's—the same sharp jawline, the same deep-set eyes—but filled with a predatory ambition instead of quiet isolation.
This was Lu Sheng, the patriarch of the Lu Group.
Lu Chen didn't move. He didn't even put down his scalpel. "You're trespassing, Father."
"I'm visiting my investment," Lu Sheng countered, his leather shoes clicking sharply on the concrete. He flicked a speck of dust off a glass case containing a preserved snowy owl. "The board is asking questions. Three years of 'artistic hiatus' is enough. The family needs its heir back."
At that moment, the side door creaked. Ning He walked in, breathless, her hair wind-blown and a small brown paper bag in her hand. She froze halfway between the door and the workbench.
The atmosphere in the room was thick with a new scent—one Ning He recognized instantly. It wasn't the smell of cedar or salt. It was the scent of "Old Money": expensive cigars, heavy sandalwood, and the cold, metallic tang of absolute power.
Lu Sheng turned his gaze toward her. It was a cold, dissecting look, the kind one gives to an insect under a microscope.
"And who is this?" Lu Sheng asked, his voice dripping with feigned politeness. "A new... specimen?"
Before Lu Sheng could step toward her, Lu Chen shifted. It was a subtle movement, but he placed himself directly between his father and Ning He.
"She is my consultant," Lu Chen said, his voice dropping to a dangerous, low vibrato. "And you were just leaving."
"Consultant?" Lu Sheng chuckled, a dry, humorless sound. He looked at Ning He's simple sweater and her worn-out boots. "You've traded the scent of success for the smell of a rain-drenched commoner. How disappointing."
He leaned in closer to Lu Chen, whispering loud enough for Ning He to hear. "Don't forget why you're in this hole, boy. You can play with your dead birds all you want, but the Lu blood doesn't wash off. I'll give you one more month."
When the sedans finally drove away, the warehouse felt smaller, more cramped. The "Old Money" scent lingered like a toxic fog.
Lu Chen was standing at his workbench, his knuckles white as he gripped the edge of the table. He didn't look at Ning He. He looked like a man who had just been reminded of his cage.
"You're not just a taxidermist," Ning He said softly, stepping closer. She opened her paper bag, and the warm, earthy smell of roasted chestnuts drifted out—a deliberate attempt to chase away the sandalwood.
"I'm exactly what you see," Lu Chen snapped, finally turning to face her. His eyes were frantic, the "fear of the dark" she had sensed before now fully exposed in the harsh light. "A man who cuts things open to see if they're still empty inside."
"No," Ning He said, offering him a chestnut. "You're a man who's been suffocated by that 'Old Money' smell for too long. It's bitter, Lu Chen. It smells like mothballs and lies."
Lu Chen looked at the chestnut, then at her. For the first time, he didn't pull away when she stepped into his space. He realized that the "Urban" world he tried to escape was coming for him, and the only person who could smell the truth was the girl with the scent bottles.