Chapter 5: The Scent of Victory

Chapter 5: The Scent of Victory

The house was a tomb. It was two in the morning, the dead hour when the city held its breath and the only sounds were the hum of the refrigerator and the distant sigh of traffic. Dressed in dark clothes, Leo and Chloe met in the ground-floor hallway, two shadows moving with a shared, silent purpose. In Leo's hand, he clutched a small bag containing their arsenal: the prawns, the milk, the fish sauce, and the syringe. His heart wasn't hammering with anxiety as it once would have; it beat with the slow, steady rhythm of a soldier before a mission.

Chloe held up the master key. In the weak moonlight filtering through the front door’s glass panel, it glinted like a shard of ice. "Ready, Maestro?" she whispered, her voice a ghost of a sound.

Leo gave a single, sharp nod. "Let's conduct."

They ascended the stairs, their footsteps swallowed by the worn carpet. Each creak of a floorboard was a thunderclap in the oppressive silence. Outside Room 7, they paused, listening. Nothing. The ghost was out, as his predictable pattern dictated. This was his castle, his stolen sanctuary, and they were the saboteurs at the gate.

Chloe slid the key into the lock. Leo held his breath, anticipating the scrape and resistance he’d felt on his first day. But under Chloe’s practiced hand, the key slid home with a soft, oiled click. The lock turned with a barely audible snick. The door to his stolen room was open.

They slipped inside, closing it gently behind them. The room was exactly as he’d imagined from the online photos, only now it was tainted by Marcus’s presence. An expensive jacket was thrown over a chair, a half-empty glass of whiskey sat on the bedside table, and the air smelled faintly of a cloying, designer cologne. For a single, fleeting moment, Leo felt a pang of what he’d lost—the large bay window showing the sleeping streetlights, the feeling of space, the quiet. Then he remembered the shove, the cruel laugh, the taunt. Go back to your closet.

The feeling vanished, replaced by cold resolve. This wasn't his room. It was the stage for his final performance.

They worked with a silent, rehearsed efficiency. Chloe, nimble and quick, stood on a chair and deftly unscrewed the end cap of the hollow curtain rod. Leo passed her the small bag of raw king prawns. One by one, she slid them inside, their pale, fleshy bodies vanishing into the metal tube. The seeds of a creeping, untraceable rot had been sown. Percussion, check.

Next, the carpet. Leo knelt, his fingers finding the edge near the wall, hidden behind a heavy oak dresser. He lifted it carefully, exposing the rough underlay. Chloe handed him the carton of milk. He poured it slowly, a steady stream that soaked into the coarse fabric, leaving a damp patch that was immediately concealed when he pressed the carpet back down. In a month, it would be a sour, putrid secret festering in the very foundations of the room. The strings, check.

Finally, the crescendo. Leo filled the syringe with the pungent, amber liquid of the fish sauce. The smell, even in a tiny dose, was acrid and overwhelming. With surgical precision, he found a seam on the back of the plush, fabric headboard and injected the contents deep into the padding. He then used his finger to paint a thin, almost invisible layer onto the metal fins of the radiator, tucked away at the back where no one would ever see it. The trap was set. The moment Marcus felt a chill and turned on the heating, he would be sealing his own foul-smelling fate.

They made a final, silent sweep of the room, ensuring not a single drop was spilled, not a single item was out of place. They had been ghosts in the ghost's lair. Wiping the doorknob with the sleeve of his hoodie, Leo took one last look at the room, a ticking time bomb of stench, and felt a profound sense of completion. He pulled the door shut, and Chloe locked it, the soft click of the bolt sounding like a final, satisfying full stop.

The next morning, Leo loaded the last of his cardboard boxes into his beat-up car. The sun was bright, the air crisp. He was leaving this house, this city, this chapter of his life behind. But he wasn't the same weary, anxious student who had arrived. The slump in his shoulders was gone, replaced by a quiet confidence. He hadn't just survived; he had fought back on his own terms. He was the architect of his own justice.

Chloe was leaning against the porch railing, a mug of tea in her hands. The purple streaks in her hair seemed brighter in the morning light.

"So, the Maestro is leaving the stage," she said, her usual smirk softened by a genuine warmth.

"The performance is over," he replied, leaning beside her. "All that's left is for the audience to appreciate it."

They stood in comfortable silence for a moment, the bond forged in their late-night conspiracy hanging between them.

"Thank you, Chloe," Leo said, his voice sincere. "For everything. I... I couldn't have done it without you."

"Hey," she said, nudging his shoulder with hers. "What are friends for? Besides, seeing the look on that prick's face when the smell hits? That's payment enough." She paused, then looked at him, her witty guard completely down. "You take care of yourself, Leo Vance. Don't let anyone push you back into a closet again."

"I won't," he promised.

An unspoken energy pulsed between them. It wasn't just friendship; it was the shared victory, the trust, the dangerous secret they now held. Acting on an impulse that felt both terrifying and completely natural, Leo leaned in and kissed her. It was brief, hesitant, and tasted of sweet tea and righteous rebellion. When he pulled back, Chloe’s eyes were wide, but a slow, genuine smile spread across her face.

"Drive safe," she whispered.

He got into his car, started the engine, and didn't look back. He was a changed man, driving away from the scene of the crime with a clear conscience and the taste of victory on his lips.

---

THREE MONTHS LATER

Leo sat in a small but bright apartment, the afternoon sun warming the cover of the novel he was reading. He had graduated with good grades, better than he’d expected. He’d landed a decent entry-level coding job in a new city. Life was calm. The ghost of Room 7 was a distant, almost funny memory.

His phone buzzed on the table beside him. A message from Chloe. His heart did a little flip. They texted often, their messages a mix of friendly banter and updates on their new lives.

This one was a screenshot.

It was from a group chat she was still in with a former housemate. The message was from someone named 'Sarah'.

Sarah: OMG you guys will not BELIEVE the drama at the old house. Marcus Thorne is going literally insane. He says Room 7 has been cursed lol. He claims it has this horrific, phantom fish smell that comes and goes. He’s had three different deep-clean companies in, they even checked the drains. They can’t find ANYTHING. He’s apparently screaming at his uncle that the place is haunted by a fishmonger. He looks like he hasn't slept in weeks.

Leo read the message once, then twice. He pictured Marcus, the man of untouchable privilege, in his expensive suit, his perfect hair, being slowly driven mad by an unfindable stench. He imagined him sniffing the air like a paranoid animal, accusing cleaners, tearing his own prized room apart in a futile search.

A slow, wide grin spread across Leo’s face. He leaned back in his chair, the sunlight warming his skin, and took a deep, satisfying breath. The air smelled clean, fresh, and sweet.

It was the scent of victory.