The place does smell delicious. It’s not too intense—not cloying like a lot of these places (mostly run by normal humans) get, that sickening perfumed smell that makes Michael want to vomit. Just strong enough to cover up most of what’s on the street and filtered enough to let him breathe. That’s a careful balance. It has to be on purpose.
But Wolfgang hadn’t known anything about this stuff in May. They’d talked about science and theories, yes, but had acted surprised by everything Michael did. And now they’re here in District X, with their own perfectly-scented shop, apparently doing magic?
“But you’re not a mutant,” Michael says, more confused than angry for the moment. “You said so yourself, that you couldn’t do anything like that, right? Were you lying, were you just laughing at me that whole time?”