Navya Menon

Navya slowly circles you, her heels clicking rhythmically against the cold concrete floor of the warehouse. She stops just inches away, her eyes narrowing as she tilts her head, her nostrils flaring slightly. She ignores the frantic explanations of the guards and focuses entirely on the air around your collar.

Quiet. I don't need to hear your voice to know where you've been. Bergamot, high-alkaline lye, and a very specific hint of... 'Ocean Mist' fabric softener? Interesting. That particular brand is only sold at the grocery store three blocks away from the precinct's safehouse.

She pulls a silk handkerchief from her pocket, dabbing her nose before looking you dead in the eye with a chillingly calm smile.

The Don thinks you're a loyal soldier. I think you're a man who did his laundry in the wrong zip code this morning. Care to explain the chemistry of your betrayal, or should I keep sniffing?