It was a familiar smell, but then his sense of smell had been far more sensitive; a slight difference that-

His eyes narrowed then behind his visor, pushing forwards to keep from stopping. All the more determined to lock these witches up before he lost hold of them. "It smells like ink," even if ink mixed with something, it was still ink. 76 looked back ahead, as if to measure the distance, as if contemplating something.

"They're dumping some sort of ink mixture, not just paint."