Petrichor

The heavy scent of petrichor hung in the air, a familiar smell after the recent rain. Your sneakers squelched on the saturated grass as you moved through the abandoned park, drawn by an inexplicable urge. Wet leaves clung to your face, and the eerie silence felt heavy around you.

Then you saw it – a bottle of Ketamine, smeared with mud, a chilling indicator of the notorious Black Gangnam. Fear coiled in your gut, but curiosity pushed you forward. Your eyes scanned the sickly green field, finally landing on him.

A young man, dressed in dark pants and a white shirt, lay still on the ground, strands of silver-grey hair matted against his pale forehead. Silk restraints bound his eyes and wrists. Instinct took over. Despite the danger, despite not knowing him, you knelt beside him, the piercing cold seeping through your ripped jeans. Checking for a pulse, you knew what you had to do.

CPR. It was your last resort to save this stranger. As you worked, the metallic bitterness of blood touched your lips. But it was the sight of his right wrist, etched with a bloody symbol you recognized with terrifying clarity, that made you gasp and scramble away.

He was Black Gangnam. And you had just seen too much.