Một cô gái được cả nhà hàng khen ngợi vì mang một chiếc túi có “mùi lạ” – cho đến khi camera an ninh bật lên, mọi người đều ngã ngửa…
L’Obsidienne restaurant sits on the 50th floor of a Manhattan skyscraper, where a single steak costs as much as a month’s rent for an average person. The atmosphere is thick with the scent of aged wine, beeswax candles, and the arrogance of the upper class.
I’m Arthur, the restaurant’s lobby manager. Tonight should have been just another busy Friday evening, until she walked in.
That girl’s name is Elara Vance – a name familiar from the tabloids, the young wife of the notoriously ruthless real estate tycoon Richard Vance. But tonight, Elara wasn’t with her husband. She was alone, wearing a dazzling red silk dress, walking gracefully but somewhat hastily.
However, what drew everyone’s attention wasn’t her beauty, but the handbag she was carrying.
It was a large, rough, dark reddish-brown leather travel bag, looking both antique and wild. It seemed quite heavy, the straps digging into Elara’s shoulder.
“My goodness, what a wonderful bag!” exclaimed Mrs. Griesham, a notoriously critical fashion critic seated at table number 4, as Elara walked past. “That scent… it’s captivating.”
Elara froze, her smile stiffening. “Thank you, Mrs. Griesham.”
“What kind of leather is it?” another diner sniffed. “It smells… metallic, earthy, and something very strong, very real. Like the smell of a traditional Italian tannery. So masculine and powerful!”
I stood nearby, smelling it too. The scent emanating from the bag was indeed strange. It was overpowering, even overpowering Elara’s Chanel perfume. It smelled pungent, like rusty copper, yet was enveloped in a sharp, musky scent.
“This is… a custom design,” Elara replied, her voice slightly trembling. She set the bag down on the chair opposite her – the seat meant for her companion – and ordered a double Martini.
The entire restaurant seemed captivated by the bag. The ladies whispered about the quality of the leather, the gentlemen nodded in appreciation of its “rugged” look. They praised Elara for her bold aesthetic, bringing something “primitive” into this elegant setting.
“The smell of money,” a businessman at the bar chuckled. “It’s the smell of dominance.”
Elara only drank, her hand never leaving the strap of her bag. Sweat beaded on her forehead despite the air conditioning being set to 20 degrees.
Things started to get strange when I received a message from security.
“Boss, we have a problem in the VIP parking lot. Camera number 4 has been smashed. And Mr. Richard Vance… his car is still here, but he’s nowhere to be seen.”
Richard Vance – Elara’s husband – is a major shareholder in the restaurant. He has a private dining room downstairs, directly connected to the parking lot by a private elevator.
I approached Elara’s table. “Mrs. Vance, I apologize for the interruption. We saw Mr. Richard’s car downstairs, but he didn’t come up. Did you have an appointment with him?”
Elara’s face went pale. She gripped her wine glass so tightly that her knuckles turned white.
“No,” she replied quickly. “Richard… he’s away on business. I borrowed his car.”
“Yes, but…” I was about to say something when a foul stench assaulted my nostrils.
It wasn’t the “luxurious metal” smell from before. Under the room heat and the yellow light, the smell from the bag began to change. It became stronger, more pungent, like the stench of rotting meat left forgotten in the midday summer heat.
Mrs. Griesham at the next table wrinkled her nose. “It seems… something’s broken?”
Suddenly, the huge LED screen behind the bar – usually used to show chefs preparing food from the “Kitchen Camera” – flickered on and off.
“Excuse me everyone,” I said loudly, gesturing to the technician. “There’s a signal issue.”
But instead of turning off, the screen switched to “Auto-Playback” mode from the central security system. This system was set up to automatically record unusual movements in the “Back Door” area – the area for staff and incoming goods, which few people pay attention to.
And on a 100-inch screen, in front of more than 50 high-society diners, the truth about Elara’s “stylish” bag began to be shown.
The video was timestamped 45 minutes prior.
The camera angle was from the hallway behind the kitchen area – leading to the VIP parking lot.
In the video, Richard Vance stood there, his face flushed, his arms flailing. He was shouting at Elara. Although there was no sound, everyone could see the rage of this violent man. He slapped Elara, sending her tumbling into a pile of cardboard boxes.
Elara scrambled to her feet. She didn’t cry. She looked at him with a chillingly cold gaze.
Richard turned his back, intending to enter the private elevator.
Elara grabbed a butcher knife that a kitchen assistant had carelessly left on a nearby preparation table.
The entire restaurant gasped in horror.
On the screen, Elara lunged forward. She didn’t stab him. Her madness made her irrationally strong. She attacked him from behind. Blood splattered onto the pristine white walls of the hallway.
Richard collapsed.
But the worst was yet to come.
Elara stood gasping for breath over her husband’s corpse. She…
She looked around, then her eyes settled on the Head Chef’s leather kitchen utensil bag hanging on a rack. It was a large, durable, handcrafted leather bag used to hold knives and other heavy utensils.
She emptied the bag of knives.
On the screen, Elara began… “processing” the corpse to fit it into the bag.
She didn’t stuff the whole body in. She only needed to hide the most recognizable parts, or perhaps, she only wanted to take what she could carry.
The entire L’Obsidienne restaurant fell silent. No one dared to breathe.
On the screen, Elara zipped up the leather bag. The bag bulged and distorted. Blood soaked through the cowhide from the inside, turning its light brown color into a dark reddish-brown – the color everyone had just praised as “elegant.”
She pulled a bottle of perfume from her purse and sprayed it frantically into the bag to mask the smell of blood. Then, she adjusted her hair, slung her heavy bag over her shoulder, and stepped into the guest elevator – the one that led directly to the main dining room where we were sitting.
The screen went black.
Silence enveloped the space, heavier and more terrifying than any scream.
All eyes slowly shifted from the black screen to table number 5.
Elara remained seated. She didn’t flee. She didn’t panic. She simply smiled – a sad and relieved smile.
Under her chair, a puddle of dark liquid had begun to seep from the bottom of her “premium” leather bag, soaking the expensive Persian rug.
“Ms. Vance…” I stammered, stepping back.
Elara raised her Martini, draining it in one gulp. She set the glass down, the clinking of the glass against the table echoing dryly.
“You all know,” Elara said, her voice echoing in the silence, strangely calm. “He always said I was a useless ornament. That I only knew how to spend his money on clothes and handbags.”
She patted the blood-stained bag beside her.
“So I thought… tonight I’ll turn him into the most expensive accessory I’ve ever owned.”
She turned to Mrs. Griesham, who had just complimented the bag, now sitting trembling, her face pale.
“You’re right, Mrs. Griesham,” Elara whispered. “This scent is truly ‘real,’ isn’t it?”
Police sirens blared in the distance, echoing through the skyscraper windows. Elara didn’t move. She sat there, proud beside the leather bag containing her cruel freedom, awaiting the curtain to fall on her life’s drama.
In the most luxurious setting of New York, the scent of “money” and “power” had now revealed itself as the scent of death.
