Urban System in America-Chapter 108 - 107: Tropic Prism

"She created Nocturne 11?" he asked curiously.

The perfumer nodded. "Her proudest creation. She instructed that it only be given to those who truly understand it. Most who come in are dazzled by what’s already on the counter. That is the outer shell of Maison Silhouet. This is its soul."

Rex nodded, impressed. He hadn’t expected so much history behind a bottle of perfume.

He brought the crystal vial of Nocturne 11 to his nose once more. The scent was captivating—velvety smoke, warm resins, a whisper of citrus at the top—but something still nagged at the edge of his perception.

He spoke. "Maybe it’s just me. But it feels like it’s reaching for something that’s just out of its grasp."

The perfumer didn’t answer immediately. He stepped back to his workstation, long fingers moving with an artist’s familiarity. He pulled down a few essences—aged labdanum, a rare blue myrrh resin, a gentle trace of heliotrope.

"These might warm the core," he murmured.

Rex nodded, then added, "Try a touch of leather. Not the sharp kind. Soft. Like the underside of an old book cover. Worn, lived-in."

The man raised a brow. "Interesting..."

He mixed carefully, balancing drop by drop into a small flask, then swirled. He offered Rex the blotter.

Rex inhaled deeply. Closed his eyes. Let it unfurl.

Better. The heart was fuller now, more cohesive. The transition from top to base felt more natural, like dusk turning to night.

But it still lacked something.

"No," Rex said softly. "It needs... a tether. Something bitter. Something green. Not overpowering. Just a thread."

The perfumer’s hands moved again—pulling out galbanum, a rare oak moss tincture, and finally, a vintage tincture of wormwood.

He hesitated. "Wormwood is dangerous. Hard to tame. But it may be what you are reaching for."

He added a trace. Just enough to whisper.

They waited. Then offered the strip once more.

Rex took it. Brought it to his nose.

This time, he immediately smiled.

It bloomed like dusk in a cathedral: smoke, ink, forgotten tomes, and twilight citrus curling around a green thread of mystery. Now, the scent moved. It told a story—from the first breath of curiosity, through the velvet night of desire, down to the closing embrace of deep woods and memory.

"This is it," Rex said.

The perfumer didn’t speak for a long moment.

Then: "You are not trained. You said this. Yet you speak like a perfumer who has worked for years. And your instincts... they are frighteningly precise."

He paused, almost solemnly, as he labeled the modified bottle.

"By the way, what is your name?" freēwēbnovel.com

"Rex. Rex Lee"

"I will note this as Nocturne 11: Rex. Only two bottles will exist. Yours—and one for our archive."

Rex didn’t ask about the archive. He had a feeling that only a few ever made it in.

The perfumer looked at him, then spoke softly, almost as if to himself.

My mistress. She created it, but even she once said, ’There is no perfection—only the pursuit of it through those who dare to listen to silence between the notes.’"

He gave Rex a long look. "You have the same gift, I think. Yours is not from training, but from... alignment. You are tuned to the world in a way that few are."

Rex took the bottle and gave a respectful nod. "I’m no artist. Just curious."

The man smiled faintly. "That’s how all the greats begin."

Then, almost as an afterthought, he said, "If you ever wish to meet her, my mistress—I can arrange it. I believe she would be very pleased to meet you."

Rex raised a brow. He was curious, certainly—but he had no intentions of diving into another world just yet.

"I’ll keep it in mind."

Then, as if on a whim, he added, "Do you have anything like the scent of the ocean? Something crisp. Fresh. Alive.Something can be used everyday."

The perfumer’s eyes lit up again. "We can create it, I already have a base for it." he said.

"Here this is one of the unfinished products of my mistress. She tried making it, but it just didn’t feel right, so she almost threw it aside."

Rex smelled it, and felt that it was indeed good as a base.

Then, they began mixing—notes of sea salt, driftwood, white musk, perhaps citrus zest or crushed herbs. Sea fennel, blue cypress, mineral moss, a rare Japanese kelp oil.

Each trial got closer. Rex sniffed one and said, "Almost... just a bit more bite. It’s missing the punch."

The man considered, then added a rare aquatic accord with a cold edge. "Try this."

Rex smelled again.

A slow smile spread across his face. "That’s it."

"That’s it. That’s exactly what I was looking for."

The perfumer let out a long breath. "Merci... finally. You, monsieur, are the most particular client I’ve ever had. But... this scent? It was worth it."

Rex laughed quietly. "Sorry. I guess I’m picky."

"No," the perfumer said, shaking his head. "You are rare."

He held the vial up reverently. "This scent... it has no name yet. It is new. You must name it. A creation like this deserves an identity."

Rex thought for a moment. Then said, "Tropic Prism."

He gave the name after serval considerations, It wasn’t just a fragrance. It was light refracted through waves, a dance between warmth and crisp ocean air. The scent carried the unmistakable vibrance of the tropics, but not in excess—never too sweet, never too sharp. It was balance, caught in motion.

The first spritz was brilliant citrus, like the shimmer of sunlight on saltwater. Then, an effortless shift into marine breeze and lush island florals, creating a scent that felt both bold and untamed, yet impossibly refined. It was the freshness of early dawn on the coast, the quiet serenity before adventure begins.

And as it settled, the deeper mineral warmth emerged—a whisper of sunlit skin, driftwood drying after the tide, the lingering touch of an ocean that never truly leaves.

The perfumer repeated it under his breath, approving. "Fitting."

As for the price, the man didn’t open the lion’s mouth. The boutique wasn’t driven by profit. His mistress had more money than she could ever spend. What mattered was the art. The connection.

He quoted a reasonable price, almost the cost of ingredients.

Rex didn’t blink. He paid without hesitation.

He now had two fragrances. Two signatures. One dark, mystical—Nocturne 11. The other crisp, commanding—Tropic Prism. Both exclusively his.

As he stepped out, he unboxed Tropic Prism and dabbed a little on his wrist.

Instant clarity. A cool rush. It was like diving into cold water on a hot day. Reviving. Anchoring.

Perfume, he realized, wasn’t just about scent. It was about state of mind. There was a reason why, in ancient times, fragrances were reserved for kings, priests, and gods. They influenced more than mood—they marked identity.

His phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

Manager – Montclair & Co.

Pleasure meeting you, Mr. Rex. I’ve arranged for the moon phase piece to be logged under our premium client care registry. If you need access to certain collectors or events in the future, don’t hesitate to call me directly.

Rex raised a brow, amused. That was fast.

He replied politely, slid the phone back into his pocket.

The manager clearly recognized value—not just in timepieces, but in people.

He didn’t mind.

He could use more allies in high places.

Outside, the sun had dipped lower, casting the boulevard in soft golden hues. Glass storefronts shimmered like still water. Streetlights flickered on. The world had slipped into its evening skin.

Rex walked slowly, letting the rhythm of the street match his own.

His scent lingered in the air behind him—an invisible mark that said:

I am here. Remember me.

(End of Chapter)