JON SIMS

Paper and resin settle in first, dry and heavy, like a desk that has not been cleared in years. This scent gathers slowly, layered and deliberate, shaped by obsession, responsibility, and the cost of knowing too much for too long. Jon Sims never meant to become the thing at the center of it all, but here he is.

Worn Leather – Creased and familiar, softened by constant use. Long hours, sleepless nights, and the weight of duty carried whether he wants it or not.

Labdanum – Dark and sticky, warm with tension. Fear and fixation, the pull of something he keeps trying to understand instead of escape.

Black Oud – Dense and shadowed, almost oppressive. Authority and inevitability, power that settles in whether it was invited or not.

Ancient Paper – Dry parchment, dust, and ink pressed into the air. Statements stacked too high, knowledge that refuses to stay quiet once it has been read.

After it lingers, there is the sense of standing alone in the archives after hours, lights humming softly, pages watching back. “I am not a monster,” echoes faintly, uncertain and stubborn, as the knowledge remains and the door refuses to close behind him.