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No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored, or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written permission from the owner of the attractron brand. This mini-book is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to actual persons or events is coincidental.

 

C1. THE FORMULA OF PERFUME (mystery mini-story)

Zira Medina sees patterns where others see noise. Small curiosities lead her into deeper shadows, and her quiet talent for reading between the lines has drawn the attention of investigators and detectives more than once. With her friend and colleague Laura Cortez beside her, Zira now receives a discreet call from a government unit: they need someone who understands subtlety, someone who notices what others overlook.

A large, prestigious perfume corporation—Liora Fine Fragrances—shows anomalies in its Quality Control division. Nothing overt. No scandals. No complaints. Just small, persistent irregularities: unstable batches, vanishing shipments, faint medical incidents blamed on dehydration. The government suspects hidden substitutions in the formulas—microscopic replacements that enrich the corporation while placing millions at risk. They need someone who can slip inside unnoticed. Time to call Zira for a delicate cooperation.

Zira and Laura are hired as temporary administrative assistants. Their badges look ordinary. Their purpose does not.

The building is pristine, fragrant, humming with quiet luxury. Yet on their first day, a misdelivered package appears on Zira’s desk: five tiny vials, no bigger than grains of rice. All labeled with the same internal code: E-421N.

C2.  Under laboratory light, however, each behaves differently. One refracts color. One evaporates too fast. One creates a silver halo when touching warm skin. Most eyes would miss the differences. Zira notices instantly.

A small slip inside the box reveals a buried truth:

“Substitute compounds: approved micro-doses.

 Cost reduction: 0.004%.

 Margin projection: +€68M profits annually.”

Millions saved through invisible chemical substitutions masked as natural notes.

Something feels wrong. The reactions are too sharp, too unstable. Zira remembers three fainting cases at a Paris fashion event—blamed on dehydration. But dehydration doesn’t cause silver traces on skin.

She studies quality sheets, batch reports, chemical diagrams. They’re flawless. Too flawless. The kind of perfection that hides something.

A name repeats in internal documents: Henrik Lemaire, a senior perfumer with a gentle demeanor and a nervous habit of passing through the wrong corridors. During his tea break, Zira approaches him with intentionally misfiled documents. When he reads the lab code, he hesitates—not from confusion, but from fear.

He reluctantly leads them toward the “red-scan wing,” a restricted lab he claims is under maintenance. The floor is warm—machinery humming underneath. Before they leave, Henrik’s keycard slips from his pocket. He snatches it too quickly, too desperately.

That night, when the building empties, Zira and Laura return. A chrome strip carrying Henrik’s keycard imprint deceives the scanner just long enough to grant them temporary clearance. They enter the restricted lab: cold, metallic, laced with the faint smell of synthetic citrus

 

C3.  Amber bottles line stainless counters:

Prototype A14 – Toxicity Trial

Prototype A14 – Olfactory Masking

Prototype A14 – Photoreactivity

A drop from one vial flashes silver under a lamp, then evaporates instantly. Not a perfume—an engineered micro-toxin designed to vanish.

A large digital panel lists hidden metrics:

Projected Exposure Index (PEI): 0.0042

Expected Annual Cases: 14,000–19,000

Adverse Event Visibility: LOW

Risk Flag: SUPPRESSED

“This isn’t an accident,” Zira murmurs. “It’s deliberate.”

Henrik appears at the doorway, trembling. He confesses he engineered the masking sequence, thinking it was purely for efficiency. When symptoms appeared—neurological stress, fainting—he investigated. His files were erased. His silence bought. His conscience haunted.

Before he can speak further, footsteps echo.

Dr. Celia Romanov, Director of Chemical Innovation, enters.

Cold. Elegant. Lethal in her certainty.

She questions Zira and Laura with subtle precision. Zira answers with careful intelligence, hiding insight behind warmth. Laura quietly extracts the digital toxicity files. Celia’s eyes linger, suspicious, calculating. She warns them to bring irregularities to her, never to “external entities.”

The moment she leaves, Zira knows they have only minutes.

Laura has the data.

And Celia has already felt a shift in the air.

They flee into a maintenance corridor as Celia locks the lab perimeter. Her voice on the intercom orders them to stop—but Zira notices the reverb. The announcement isn’t coming from their hall. It’s a bluff.

They slip into the abandoned old wing, shadows of outdated machines and faded fragrance posters. Henrik recalls a sealed emergency exit. Behind a dusty wall panel, Zira finds the old manual port. Henrik’s badge contains a forgotten legacy key.

As they open the escape tunnel, Celia appears in the doorway, calm as a blade.

“You have something that belongs to my company,” she says.

Zira meets her gaze.

 “You replaced natural notes with micro-toxins. You informed no one. People trust beauty, and you used that trust to profit.”

Celia smiles coldly.

 “Trust sells. And trust can be shaped.”

Zira replies softly,

 “And so can truth.”

Celia steps forward.

 “Give me the device.”

Zira shakes her head.

 “You already did.”

Celia’s eyes flicker.

“The last five minutes of your voice,” Zira says, “have been transmitted to the government server.”

The first crack in Celia Romanov’s perfect expression appears.

Zira, Laura, and Henrik slip into the maintenance tunnel as the panel seals behind them, locking Celia in the old wing.

Outside, night air embraces them—cold, honest, cleansing.

Henrik collapses, overwhelmed.

Laura steadies her breathing.

Zira stands still, holding the device that now carries the evidence, the confession, the truth.

In the days that follow, the unraveling begins quietly.

Government teams move swiftly: dawn arrests, silent escorts, sealed offices.

C4.  Dr. Celia Romanov is taken from her office without resistance.

Two senior executives are charged with knowingly approving toxic substitutions.

A shadow chemical supplier is dismantled.

A compliance officer faces negligence charges.

Liora Fine Fragrances dissolves under the weight of its secrets.

Products recalled.

Leadership stripped.

Integrity units installed.

A company rebuilt from ashes, wearing a name that will never smell pure again.

Henrik Lemaire, shaken but honest, cooperates fully. He is not arrested. He becomes a protected witness, slowly reclaiming his life from guilt.

And Zira?

She doesn't take credit.

She never does.

Her name appears in no report. She makes no statement. She doesn’t explain what she saw or how she saw it. She simply visits the government office, hands over the final confirmations, and walks out quietly with Laura at her side.

“What now?” Laura asks.

Zira looks at the world—people hurrying, laughing, carrying bags, wearing perfumes they assume are harmless.

“I’ll go home,” she says. “Have tea. Rest. And when the next pattern appears…”

She lifts her fingertips gently, a gesture of readiness.

“…I’ll follow it.”

Because in the life of Zira, mysteries never really end.