No one remembered when the decree came down, but it was signed in gold ink and smelled faintly of bergamot—official enough. From that day forward, every citizen could only own five colognes. Not six. Not a sampler set. Just five. Myke and Steve took this as seriously as a will-reading. They met under the usual circumstances—mid-life males, existential dread, matching leather jackets—and began their quest like scholars assembling a sacred text. They smelled their way through boutiques, airport...