L*st and Death

Lewis opened his eyes, overwhelmed by a horrible hunger triggered by the faint, stale smell of curry clinging to his nose. He retraced his memories, puzzled by the fact that he could look directly at the overhead light—usually too blinding to face—without any discomfort.

He was lying on a cold floor, the scent of curry drifting through the air. He vaguely remembered Anna ordering curry over the phone, but had no memory of ever eating it. On top of that, the surface he lay on was unheated, biting with cold.

Realizing too late that the place where he had awakened was not a soft bed, Lewis sluggishly rolled his eyes and finally grasped where he was.

He was trapped inside the panic room.

"Get inside the panic room, now!"

The last thing he remembered before waking in the panic room was Anna pointing a gun at him. That jarring memory slammed into him like a freight train. Lewis squeezed his eyes shut and buried his face in his palms—then flinched and jerked his hands away.

“Shit—what the fuck.”

His palms were smeared with a cloudy, viscous fluid. Alarmed by the sickening premonition crawling through his head, Lewis forced his weak body upright and looked down at himself, suddenly aware of the empty sensation coursing through him.

Thick ropes lay snapped and scattered on the ground. The floor where he had lain was crusted with dried semen. Rope burns marked his body, and large, dark bruises mottled his skin. Worse yet, his genitals were bloated and swollen to the size of a tumbler, soaked pale in semen.

“...Another rut.”

The word left his lips unbidden—unfamiliar once, but now something he had to get used to. It was already his second rut. But he had the gut-deep conviction that he would never, ever get used to it.

“Ha... At least this place is better than the first time.”

His first rut had taken place at New Life Clinic—a facility far too shady to be called a clinic at all. Men who claimed to be doctors and nurses had locked him up in a deep, sealed-off concrete pit, where he was left without explanation for nearly a week.

From the floor drain wafted the stench of sewage. From the damp walls, a horrific pheromone permeated through his skin—thick, acrid, like burnt rubber. The lingering odor left behind by the men who’d gone through rut in that same pit before him.

Lewis had nearly died going through his first rut in there. Compared to that, a safe room filled with reeking curry was paradise.

His nerves were hypersensitively fixated on his throbbing cock. Since his transformation into an alpha, he had grown taller, gained stamina beyond belief—and, unexpectedly, even his cock had grown. Though... was that really something to call a benefit?

“...Ugh. Disgusting.”

Blinking dumbly, Lewis stared down at his cock. It had already been uncomfortably large during sex. Now it was longer, thicker—obscenely so. He touched the tip, warily, as if handling someone else’s organ.

“Ugh!”

In that moment, he felt both heaven and hell. Like pouring cold water on a burn—startling pain and ecstatic pleasure shot through him like lightning. Terrified the sensation would devour him, Lewis quickly let go. It felt as if some alien creature disguised as a cock had latched onto his body, a parasite clad in overwhelming pleasure.

“Did... Anna see me like this?”

The Anna he knew was someone who’d kill her own brother just for asking, “Can I kiss you?” If he’d actually tried to kiss her, she’d do more than kill—she’d drench him in gasoline and burn everything down. And yet, he’d nearly raped her. Just the thought made him gag.

The last thing he remembered before losing control was his body moving toward Anna on its own. If the early symptoms of the rut cycle hadn’t suddenly hit, he would’ve locked himself in the panic room willingly. Instead, he’d ended up showing her something unforgivable.

According to New Life Clinic’s documentation, alphas typically entered rut every forty days. Lewis had entered his second in just over thirty. It was a nightmare.

He had nearly assaulted Anna. If the tranquilizer dart she’d shot hadn’t knocked him out, it would’ve been irreversible.

If, every time a rut cycle hit, he lost all autonomy and became trapped in this endless loop of sexual aggression—if he ruined everything, again and again—there would be no one left at his side. He could already clearly see it: the future where he ended up in prison for sex crimes or killed himself in a twisted attempt at justice.

And it had to happen now—just when he was finally ready to take flight.

Lewis, once an unknown actor, had been cast as Private Norman Anderson in Return to Bunker, and everything had changed. The public wanted to know more about Lewis McCarthy, the man behind Norman. They dug up every bit of his screen time, even his most forgettable extra roles, and cataloged it all. The hype for his future exploded into virtual casting forums.

That attention led him to the verge of signing with a famous publicist—one who managed A-listers in Hollywood. Just her expressing interest had meant the gates of stardom were opening wide. But then, a sudden car crash had left him brain-dead.

At least, that was what the world believed.

He stood at a crossroads: die and become a tragic celebrity martyr who saved lives through organ donation—or survive as a creature called an alpha, a rut-crazed beast. The decision had never been his. He had simply... become.

Now, he lived every day on edge, never knowing when the next rut cycle would hit, or when he’d fall into a seizure-like state of hyperarousal. The fear of being seen in that condition was so consuming, he sometimes wished to vanish from the world entirely.

But he couldn’t live like this forever.

Lewis reflexively raised his hands to scrub his face—but then remembered the sticky semen still coating them. He sighed and wiped his palms off on a T-shirt discarded on the floor.

“Ugh. Gross.”

It was disgusting. Disgusting—but the ache in his lower body was too strong to ignore.

Grumbling, Lewis began pulling on his sweat-drenched, semen-soaked clothes, but the waistband of his sweatpants grazed his cock and sent him collapsing to the floor, trembling all over. Even the slightest stimulation was a fuse; lust exploded in his brain like a wildfire. And then, the smell of curry—once faint—hit him hard. It had to be the curry Anna ordered, the one he never got to eat.

The scent was thick, yellowed, and slightly foul—like curry boiled in ditch water.

And yet... the idea of filling a steaming bathtub with that dirty curry and jerking off in it until he died felt almost euphoric.

His heart thudded violently against his ribs. Lewis, consumed by the bizarre craving, crawled on his knees toward the sealed door. Unable to hold back, he buried his face against the crack and pulled down his pants, exposing himself.

“Ugh, hhh, ha...”

Masturbating to the smell of curry. He hadn’t gone completely mad yet—he knew how deranged it was. But somehow, that curry promised not release, but a more glorious orgasm. It was a magic recipe laced with someone’s faint sweat, their sticky body odor.

It was absurd, but Lewis felt sure he could pick that scent’s owner out from a million others. He wanted to lick every inch of that sweat-soaked skin. Bury his face between their legs and suck until he’d devoured it all.

Just imagining that body—just realizing it wasn’t near—was enough to crush his heart with an overwhelming sense of loss. And without needing anyone to explain it to him, Lewis understood: there was a thread of fate connecting him to that person, be it man or woman.

He had to find them. And then he had to get inside their body.

Just resolving to claim them sent his physical state into emergency mode. His heart pounded even harder, his vision narrowed—like a gazelle fleeing a lion.

No—that wasn’t right.

He was the lion. And he had to catch that gazelle, sink his teeth into its fragile neck, and feast on its warm flesh.

Pure, violent energy coursed through him, awakening something primal. His instincts shouted:

Find them. Pin them down. Mark them. Make them yours so no one else ever will.

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