A long, winding line descended the slopes of the Appalachian Hills. Buisnessmen in tattered suits, skateboarders with custom decks, nuns clutching roses, all gathered to meet a figure shrouded in mystery: an eleven-year-old boy dressed entirely in black. He sat upon a white chair, leaning back with a masked face, rhythmically tapping and twirling a No. 2 Ticonderoga pencil. In the shadow of the line, desperate travelers traded diamond rings and pink slips for the outcome of the next round, turning the hillside into a high-stakes mountain casino. After each visitor, he shouted a sharp, “Next!”

Travelers had journeyed across rocky mountains, through foggy streets, past neon-lit nightclubs, and over desolate deserts to meet this legend. This boy was Evan An.

Days earlier, as traffic jams paralyzed the cities, bold new advertisements appeared on every corner. They all bore the same message:

“Meet Evan, the master of many titles: Smell-a-zon, Lord Wacky, The Stalker of Noses, and more. Book your visit at evanink.com to meet this fabulous figure! Anyone who beats Evan in a 1v1 smelling competition wins a whopping 10 billion dollars! Don’t miss out! Let the SMELL be with you!” The massive ads dominated billboards, featuring an image of a masked man with a colossal nose capable of inhaling entire houses and planets. News spread like wildfire; travel sites crashed as people scrambled to book tickets, blinded by the hope of becoming billionaires. None of them knew the true power of the opponent they were about to face.

The rules were simple: a challenger would present a random object that could be carried by hand and fit upon the wooden stand, and Evan, while masked, would attempt to identify it by scent alone. People tried to puzzle him with everything from expensive watches and moldy pizzas to shards of tree bark. Yet, he guessed every single item correctly. After each victory, Evan would remove his mask and claim the object for himself. His legendary collection grew to include boxes of cranberries and even full-sized turkeys.

The atmosphere changed when a burly, tattooed man stepped forward. It was a heavyweight WWE champion—the one and only John Cena. A wrestling belt was strapped around his waist, and his muscles bulged like pumpkins, threatening to rip through his clothes. Evan gave a slow, silent nod and lowered his mask.

“The money will be mine!” Cena roared.

Suddenly, a series of distant beeps erupted, growing from faint shrieks into thunderous booms. A massive crane swerved onto the slope, driven by a construction worker—one of Cena’s goons—who handled the machine like a wounded duck. The crane lurched to a halt in front of Evan’s stand, sending a wave of water splashing onto his face.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Evan started, his eyes closed. “But you have violated the rules. The object must be carried by hand and fit on the table. Tow this away at once or you will be disqualified.”

“What?!” Cena bellowed, as the crowd shrank back in fear.

“Oh, and by the way,” Evan added calmly, “it’s a crane, right?”

Before the machine had even stopped, Evan performed his signature move. The Tri-Sniff Gatling: three rapid, shallow draws of air that isolated the background and components of any object. It was like putting together a puzzle – instead of sniffing everything in one go, Evan split the pieces into three parts, which he combined to make one whole picture. Through the first sniff, he isolated the wafer of wet Appalachian mud. The second whiff revealed the heavy, metallic structure of the object, the scent of rusted iron and decayed copper. With the final deep inhale, he identified the last part: a specific, diesel fuel used only for cranes and other heavy machinery. 

Cena’s face turned a deep, furious red. He lunged forward, swinging a massive, ringed fist at Evan’s face. But he was too slow. Evan caught a whiff of a foul odor—a mix of skunk spray, radioactive slime, and sautéed crocodile carcass—and shifted his weight just in time. Cena’s momentum carried him forward, and he toppled onto the stand, which splintered under his weight.

“You will pay!” Cena thrashed blindly.

But Evan wasn’t listening. He had already leaped into the cab of the crane, shoving the worker aside. If anyone bypassed the rules, Evan already knew what to do. He slammed the machine into gear, swung the arm around, and hooked the back of Cena’s waistband. With a roar of the engine, the crane hoisted the wrestler with an ultimate “wedgie” and drove off into the distance, leaving the stunned crowd behind.

Evan looked back at the stunned, amazed crowd, and adjusted his mask.

“Next!”