Chapter 10: A Failed Creation

Not long after the alarm went off, an announcement about a fire alarm echoed through the hotel, followed by loud banging on my door.

BANG! BANG! BANG!

“Sir! Are you inside!? Sir!? There’s a fire! You need to evacuate!”

My mind went blank.

I had no idea how to deal with this situation.

Then I heard someone trying to open the door.

Startled, I rushed over to lock the security chain.

I didn’t want anyone seeing the scene of my crime.

Clack.

But before I could fasten it, the door opened.

A hotel employee burst into the room.

“Sir! You need to evacuate! There’s a fire! Huh!? There’s already smoke!”

His voice was full of urgency.

I stood there awkwardly, unable to say anything.

The employee grabbed my wrist.

Closing my eyes tightly, I stammered.

“U-um… well… actually…”

“This isn’t the time for that! There’s a fire!”

No, there wasn’t a fire.

I was the one who caused the problem.

Why was it so hard to say?

I squeezed my eyes shut and spoke in a tiny voice.

“About that fire… I caused it.”

“What? What do you mea—”

I pointed toward the table inside the room.

At that moment, another hotel employee rushed in.

“Why haven’t you evacuated you—oh.”

Both employees froze.

On the table sat a completely burned roti.

One side had turned into charcoal, and smoke was still lazily rising from it.

* * *

The evidence of my crime sat plainly on the table:

A tawa pan, a gas burner, and a blackened roti that looked more like coal than bread.

The middle-aged hotel manager stared at it for a long time before awkwardly asking,

“So you’re saying the smoke detector went off because you were cooking this roti?”

We were now in the manager’s office.

The hotel staff had escorted me there along with the evidence.

After hearing my explanation, the manager and employees all looked dumbfounded.

Apparently, triggering a hotel fire alarm while cooking roti in your room wasn’t a common occurrence.

They might think I was trying to save money despite room service being available, so I explained further.

“Yes… I’m learning Indian cooking, and while practicing I got a phone call and forgot about it…”

“Cooking and using heating appliances inside hotel rooms is prohibited. I assume you weren’t aware?”

“No… I’m sorry.”

I lowered my head like a criminal.

There was an electric kettle in the room, so I had assumed it was allowed.

Apparently not.

“Well… at least the sprinklers didn’t activate.”

The moment he mentioned the sprinklers, cold sweat poured down my back.

If that had happened, the compensation costs would’ve been terrifying.

“Hmm…”

The manager fell silent.

Those few seconds felt like eternity.

Then he said something I never expected.

“A few guests were startled, but the hotel suffered no actual damage. And since you were trying to learn Indian cuisine, we’ll let this matter go.”

He shrugged.

“As an Indian, it’s difficult for me to criticize someone for wanting to learn our food.”

The employees nodded in agreement.

Did India have some sort of national pride regarding food?

Since nobody had been hurt and no damage was done, the manager decided not to pursue it.

“O-Oh! Thank you very much!”

I jumped to my feet and bowed repeatedly.

However, the manager immediately pointed at my cooking equipment.

“Those, however, are being confiscated.”

It was just a cheap pan and burner.

“That’s fair.”

“And no more cooking in hotel rooms.”

“Understood.”

I nodded obediently.

Then things suddenly became noisy outside.

A hotel employee rushed into the office and reported something to the manager in Hindi.

“ग्राहकों में से किसी को चोट लगी है…”

The manager’s face immediately stiffened.

After listening to the full report, he turned toward me.

“We may have a problem. It seems one of the guests was injured during the evacuation.”

“What!? Really? Were they badly hurt?”

My face turned pale.

The manager shook his head.

“No. It seems she twisted her ankle.”

I sighed in relief.

Then he continued.

“The issue is that she’s the wife of the police commissioner.”

“What? The Police Commissioner?”

My heart dropped again.

I’m not getting arrested for accidental arson, am I?

The thought flashed through my mind.

They’re not actually going to throw me in jail, right?

Still, it was my fault she got hurt.

I needed to apologize and cover any medical expenses.

“Could you take me to her? I’d like to apologize and pay for her treatment.”

The manager hesitated before nodding.

“Very well.”

***

We headed to the hotel’s café.

Inside, a heavyset man was sitting beside a young, glamorous woman and pressing an ice pack against her ankle.

A pair of incredibly high heels sat nearby.

Apparently she’d twisted her ankle while running in them.

The manager explained the situation.

I was in the middle of apologizing.

“I’m very sorry. As for your treatment—Gah!”

Suddenly, the large man grabbed me by the collar.

In heavily accented English, he shouted,

“This has been a terrible day already! And now you’ve injured Anusha! I’ll personally make sure you end up in prison!”

“Commissioner, please calm down!”

“Please stop, Rohan!”

Even the commissioner’s wife rushed over to help restrain him.

As she stepped between us, a familiar scent reached me.

Huh?

“Rohan, it was an accident. Ah…”

“Anusha! Are you alright?”

When she winced and grabbed her injured ankle, the commissioner finally calmed down.

A little later, everyone sat down again.

Surprisingly, it was his wife who apologized first.

“I’m sorry. My husband has been under a lot of stress. Please forgive him.”

“It’s alright. Anyone would be upset if their beautiful wife got hurt.”

“Oh my. Thank you. Rohan?”

“You expect me to apologize to a Chinese guy?”

“Rohan?”

“Commissioner, I’m Korean.”

“…Ahem. Really? Then sorry. I’ve been angry since this morning. Damn it.”

He looked like he’d rather die than apologize, but hearing I was Korean forced the words out of him.

Still irritated, he slapped a small shopping bag on the table.

The bag fell.

A small box rolled out.

The commissioner’s face darkened again.

Whatever was bothering him clearly had something to do with that box.

And the box looked very familiar.

Because it had the Maison d’Étoile logo on it.

The perfume his wife was wearing also smelled familiar.

I had made it myself.

“Excuse me, but may I ask what’s wrong? If it has something to do with Maison d’Étoile perfumes, I might be able to help.”

Partly because I felt guilty about her injury.

Partly because I was happy to meet someone wearing my perfume.

The couple blinked at each other.

Then the commissioner frowned.

“You? Help us?”

The skepticism in his voice was obvious.

He looked me up and down.

Only then did I realize what I looked like.

A cheap T-shirt from the market.

Shorts.

And recycled tire sandals I’d bought with the cooking equipment because Shambu said they were comfortable.

Looks weren’t everything, but I definitely didn’t look trustworthy.

There was a saying:

Even scammers should dress well.

And I was the guy who had nearly burned down his hotel room while cooking.

Anyone would be suspicious.

Scratching my head awkwardly, I answered.

“Well… I’m actually a perfumer at Maison d’Étoile.”

The commissioner looked at the manager.

The manager cautiously nodded.

“I can’t confirm he’s a perfumer, but it is true that he’s staying in a room booked through Maison d’Étoile.”

Two voices immediately spoke at once.

“You? You’re really a perfumer from that damned company?”

“Is that true? You look too young to be part of the alphabet line. Which perfumes have you created?”

One voice was sharp and hostile.

The other was filled with excitement.

Just as I’d suspected, there was clearly some issue involving Maison d’Étoile.

And the commissioner’s wife seemed very knowledgeable about perfume.

Maison d’Étoile produced two kinds of fragrances.

One for ordinary consumers.

The other for the wealthy elite.

The difference wasn’t only that one was mass-produced while the other was handmade.

Even the naming system was different.

Regular perfumes received names from the marketing department.

Things like Spring Maiden or Autumn Solitude.

But certain perfumes received names automatically the moment they were created.

Limited-production fragrances handmade by master perfumers.

These were known as the alphabet line.

For example, Evan’s perfumes used the letters Ev from his name.

If another perfumer had the same initials, additional letters were added.

His latest creation was Ev. No. 17 – The Prodigal Son Returns.

The company’s website even displayed his photo.

Only master perfumers received that honor.

I had an alphabet line too.

Mine began with Se, from Seo Dam.

Everything had stalled because of Evan’s death and my loss of smell.

But if I’d officially become a master perfumer, my photo would’ve eventually appeared alongside the SE Line.

“Well…”

Just as I was about to answer, the commissioner’s wife sharply interrupted.

“Rohan?”

The older commissioner immediately corrected himself.

“Ahem. I mean… you’re really a perfumer from that company?”

“Yes.”

I pointed toward the perfume she was wearing.

“The fragrance you’re wearing was created by me.”

“This one!?”

Her eyes widened.

Then she excitedly began speaking.

“Little Miracle is my favorite perfume! You have no idea how much comfort it gives me!”

She leaned forward.

“How did you create something like this? The moment I smelled it, I cried. It reminded me of my first child.”

She understood that?

Little Miracle was one of my earliest works.

Together with Se. No. 1 – Pure Nectar, it formed a matching pair.

Pure Nectar evoked the warmth of a mother’s embrace.

“Little Miracle” evoked a newborn child.

They had been designed to be worn together.

One represented the mother.

The other represented the baby.

Together, they created the image of a mother holding her first child.

The idea had originally come from Evan.

“A woman only truly becomes a mother when she holds her child.”

But it had failed.

My very first failure.

And my last one.