Not a scent, no, not quite. It is some other sense that Daniel has no word for; it's as though in undeath, his body has developed a new, second nervous system, and perhaps this 'scent' is yet another thing detected by that whatever-it-is.

Like a kiln. He thinks of ancient Greek pots and the gods depicted on them in gold and onyx.

Just a light creeping, he supposes. Feeling off about it, he succumbs to paranoia and checks the suitcases tucked under the bed, which is serving as a better workstation than the shitty little desk. They seem undisturbed, but he pulls one out anyway and unzips it to behold the books within. Boasting incriminatory titles and containing data that probably won't help at all, but he has to try. Doesn't he?

No sense-memory-feeling suggests his visitor has perused them. Daniel absently zips his thumb over the corner of one paperback, like he's animating a flipbook. Whether I like it or not, he thinks wryly.

Back on his feet. Back to the bathroom.

The door opens again. Daniel stares at the younger man, listens to the fraying, swimming panic of his vitals, and he pushes oh-so-gently. He wants to see what happened, he wants conformation of what he already knows: Armand was here, Armand left him this very considerate, personally and deliberately curated breakfast. Knelt beside the bath, it's an easy thing to reach out and pull this illiterate hack close enough to pierce his panic-sweaty skin with sharp teeth.

He touches the bond. You were near. Where are you now?

There will, of course, be no answer.