Myke and Steve didn’t plan on trouble that afternoon, but trouble often comes disguised in glass bottles. The YSL counter gleamed under the fluorescent buzz, a temple of temptation wrapped in black lacquer. The sales associate, eyes sharp as razors, sprayed a cold mist of MYSLF L’Absolu onto a strip of paper. The scent rose like smoke from a ritual fire—bitter citrus, damp woods, something almost metallic. Myke’s nose twitched; Steve smirked like a man about to confess to a crime he didn’t commit. They leaned in, inhaling at the same time, and for a moment, it felt less like shopping and more like gambling with fate.

The fragrance shifted—first warm, then sour, then unsettlingly sweet. Myke whispered, “It smells like ambition gone wrong,” and Steve chuckled, though his laugh sounded nervous, like it might shatter under its own weight. Around them, shoppers moved as if unaware of the private interrogation happening between two friends and a bottle of scent. Was it genius or a chemical accident? Was it desire in liquid form, or the perfume of regret? They didn’t answer, couldn’t answer. The strip hovered between them, pulsing with possibility, while both men stood frozen in suspense, silently calculating whether to love it, hate it, or fear what would happen if they chose wrong.

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