It's a brisk and brusque day, rain falling in sour spitting sheets beneath the cloud-clogged sky. The weather is morose, the fall chill and grimy grey enough to offset the steady plinking of the rain, petrichor and rust mingling in the air. But beyond that... there's a certain mix of crushed roses and rosemary and silk soaked in oil and threshed wheat, the din of a very particular desperate desire spilling out into the air like a smoke signal. The scent is harsh and clean and almost chemical, a precise perfume drowned out in soot, smog and stress.