That morning, in a closed institute in Geneva, the head of Synthesis—a nameless man with plates implanted under his skin to block his sense of smell—was analyzing ethers. Three test tubes lay before him: cloves, cardamom, pepper.

“They’re active,” he told his subordinates. “The song is spreading. We were late in suppressing the signal in Asia. Cinnamon and turmeric are already rising in Africa. The metastructure has gained wings.”

“We need to wipe them out. Burn temples. Cut off sources.”

The boss shook his head.

— No. We won’t destroy. We’ll integrate. We’ll add a scent of synthesized memory to the food chains. Soon they’ll start forgetting on their own. No violence. No pain. They’ll just stop feeling the difference between real and substitute.

He took the test tube of cardamom. And at that moment a strange image flashed on the wall – as if a spotlight was projecting not light, but a smell.

Cardamom remembered it. But he didn’t.

The song was played here too.

Ahead—the path to the next Guardian. Maybe Pepper. Maybe Turmeric.

But it was already clear: this time the song would not stop.