Myke and Steve didn’t plan on trouble that afternoon, but trouble often comes disguised in glass bottles. The YSL counter gleamed under the fluorescent buzz, a temple of temptation wrapped in black lacquer. The sales associate, eyes sharp as razors, sprayed a cold mist of MYSLF L’Absolu onto a strip of paper. The scent rose like smoke from a ritual fire—bitter citrus, damp woods, something almost metallic. Myke’s nose twitched; Steve smirked like a man about to confess to a crime he didn’t co...