L*st and Death

“Yes, yes. Thank you so much.”

Siron sat stiffly upright on the bed. He thought that would help him produce a more alluring and well-modulated voice.

“Baekgyeong's a real piece of work, isn’t he? He’s been putting both you and me through hell. Haha... Huh? You want a selfie? ...Good-looking, my ass. I’ve turned into a total old man!”

It was the first time in four years Siron had encountered a ‘fan of Yoon Siron.’ And not just any fan—a devoted one who had once run a major fan site. Even though he didn’t consider himself an old man in the slightest, and would’ve bristled if someone else had dared call him that, Siron feigned humility anyway.

“Not an old man, huh... Ah, you saw that photo of Daniel online. ...Me? I didn’t see it myself, just heard about it from people. Reading the comments would’ve ruined my mood for days. ...It’s fine, though.”

Daniel was smart—smart enough that Siron wondered where Baekgyeong had managed to dig up someone like him. As soon as he saw the notice Jiyeon had forwarded—about submitting documentation to explain the source of overseas asset acquisition—he immediately proposed solutions in terms Siron couldn’t even half understand, saying he’d take care of it himself and putting Siron at ease.

“Haha, yeah, it’s all because of Baekgyeong. So let’s just destroy Baekgyeong together. ...Right, I’ll send Jiyeon’s email address right away. Have a great afternoon and hang in there today!”

Ending the call in a glow of satisfaction, Siron leaned back and closed his eyes. It had been a long time since he felt genuine gratitude. The absolute support and love of someone he didn’t even know made him feel seen—like his existence itself had been acknowledged. The world remembered him as a disgraced former celebrity, but even so, to know that someone out there still held affection, passion, and support for him... he was grateful.

Love myself? Whatever. Love from others was always the best.

Switching the camera to selfie mode, Siron tousled his bangs and tilted his chin slightly, gazing dreamily as he changed the background angles and took dozens of photos.

No matter how he looked at it, he really had a good face. The kind that reminded people of their first love—soft, clean, like it would smell faintly of soap. A face like this, paired with solid acting skills—how could the public not love him? Even if Baekgyeong hadn’t discovered him and offered support, he was bound to land leading roles eventually on the strength of his presence alone.

Buoyed by Daniel’s encouragement, Siron picked up the long-abandoned persona of ‘actor’ and dusted it off, swapping it in place of the defeated ‘Yoon Siron’ self he’d been wearing lately. That petty ten million won? He’d earn it all back once he made a successful comeback as an actor.

So don’t go begging Jiyeon for crumbs like some loser, Yoon Siron.

He tapped the calculator app on his old laptop, organizing what funds he had left and estimating upcoming expenses. Each outlay was necessary, but looking at how close he was to financial ruin made him anxious. He’d signed up for clinical trials to make money and ended up an omega—but he was still poor. Siron realized it was finally time to act on something he’d only been thinking about until now.

First, he went into Lewis’s room next door. He grabbed a few T-shirts and shirts that Lewis liked to wear at home. Just in case he evolved further into a true omega and started unconsciously releasing pheromones like sweat, maybe Lewis’s pheromones would help cancel it out.

Then Siron stepped out of the apartment. Taking this rare solo outing as a chance to enjoy himself, he planned to flutter around like a busy sparrow all afternoon.

He took a bus and stopped by the bank to pay off overdue rent and utilities using the money left in his account—plus the funds he’d (secretly) borrowed from Baekgyeong. Then, hoping for a miracle, he bought a lottery ticket before heading to his next destination: the Lafayette commercial district, about ten kilometers north of Reinhardt.

Lafayette was a hub where industrial garages and retail shops overlapped—a broad roadside stretch filled with car dealerships, motorcycle showrooms, and repair shops. It was a place that dealt with “vehicles” in every form.

The store Siron sought out was “Adams Bike,” located along the main road. Specializing in used motorcycle sales and repairs, it was housed in a long, low building—sales at one end, repair center at the other.

Back when he’d worked as a delivery rider for Curry King, Siron always came here when his bike needed fixing. The owner, Adam Green, and his son were both handy and honest—no inflated estimates, no parts scams.

The lights were on, but no one was inside. Siron figured the owner must’ve left the place open and stepped out. If a thief walked in and swiped something, he wouldn’t even notice, Siron thought as he slowly looked around.

The spacious shop was packed with motorcycles, neatly lined up. Shiny paint jobs and gleaming chrome parts sparkled under the bright lights. Each bike had a label with its price, model year, and specs.

Luckily, there were several models identical to the one Siron used to ride for curry deliveries. The cheapest was listed at $1,099. Even if he emptied every last dollar he had, he’d still be $157 short. But he had to bargain somehow. He didn’t have a single penny to spare.

“It’s almost closing time—where the hell is he? ...Is he even running this place?”

As he wandered the shop, Siron noticed a faded and crumpled missing person poster pinned between the calendar and the clock. Though the words “Missing Person” were still clearly printed beneath the photo of a woman in her late twenties, the colors had faded with time. It looked like Adam’s younger sister was still missing.

Just then, a faint clapping sound reached his ears. At first, Siron thought it was the TV—but the sound was much more vivid. He followed the noise to a slightly ajar glass sliding door. Beyond the door sat a dozen or so people arranged in a circle, facing each other. It resembled either a group therapy session or a small-scale cult meeting.

Adam Green, the shop owner Siron was looking for, was seated directly across from the glass door, listening intently to someone speaking. He hadn’t noticed Siron standing outside.

...Not really the kind of scene you knock on a door and interrupt.

But Siron couldn’t just wait around forever either, so he eventually tapped on the glass, lightly. Every head turned to look at him. Flustered, Siron gave a small, awkward nod.

“Ron! Been a while, hasn’t it?”

Adam came out smiling, visibly glad to see him. Siron studied Adam’s bloodshot eyes and flushed face and offered a cautious smile.

“Yeah. You doing okay?”

“I’m doing great. What brings you here? Repairs?”

“No, I’m actually looking to buy a new bike. I’m going to start working for Fresh Eats as a delivery rider.”

“Lots of people doing that these days. Got a model in mind?”

“A Honda PCX 125.”

“We’ve got everything from 2010 to 2013 models.”

Siron subtly walked over to the one priced at $1,099.

“Could you give me a $160 discount? That’s all I’ve got.”

“Aw, come on. You know this is a fixed-price shop.”

“Then... how about buying on credit? I’ll pay you back once I start delivering.”

He considered mustering up some tears—maybe breaking down and sobbing about being one step away from homelessness—but before he had to go that far, Adam offered a solution. He had the same model available with cosmetic damage. Adam said the scratches were purely external and didn’t affect performance, and led Siron to a group of bikes without price tags.

“Scratches? This looks more like Wolverine went berserk on it.”

“Eh, looks like someone just got a little itchy and scratched it.”

“You’re serious?”

“Haha, it runs perfectly fine. If it didn’t, I wouldn’t be selling it. I even changed the engine oil. Just needs new brake pads and a bulb. Sound good?”

Before Siron could decide, Adam quoted the price. $800—$100 under Siron’s budget. But there was a catch: he’d have to wait for repairs to finish.

“You know how good my son is. It won’t take long.”

“How long?”

“About 20 minutes.”

Siron had planned to ride straight home on the new bike, but had no choice but to wait for their session to end.

“It’s hot—come inside and wait.”

“...Inside? With them?”

“Yeah. Come on.”

Caught off guard, Siron followed Adam through the door into the pleasantly air-conditioned back room. All eyes turned to him as he stepped in, and Siron gave them a sheepish nod. Since Adam’s son would be working on the bike, Siron was led to sit in his place during the remaining twenty minutes or so.

Sitting awkwardly and trying to shrink into himself, Siron was approached by a white-haired middle-aged man in a light gray suit. Wearing oversized metal-rimmed glasses, he had a gentle, intelligent air about him.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you like. It’s an open group—no pressure at all.”

“Yes, sir.”

Siron nodded politely, clamping his mouth shut to stay low-profile. It felt just like the group therapy scenes in movies and TV. The session seemed to have lost momentum with his arrival, and a looseness had settled into the room. People whispered softly while casting curious glances his way. Though he couldn’t make out the words, he felt their interest.

Soon, Adam—who had just sold Siron a bike—stood up and sat in the chair at the center of the circle, beginning to speak.

He talked about his youngest sister, who had gone missing years ago. Judging by how attentively the others listened and empathized, many in the group had shared similar experiences. Adam said that while he was desperate to know whether she was alive or dead, he also felt guilty for slowly erasing her from his daily life as time passed.

“When the pain of losing someone you love starts to dull, feeling guilt is natural. Living with that sorrow... is incredibly hard.”

The man in the gray suit looked at Adam with thoughtful, kind blue eyes. Slowly and clearly, he asked,

“What’s your greatest fear right now?”

He stepped closer and placed a hand on Adam’s shoulder.

“Adam... what if that dulling is your brain’s way of shaving off just a little of that enormous grief so you can survive?”

The white-haired man in the neatly pressed gray suit seemed to be the leader of the group—probably a therapist running the session. He posed questions to Adam, exchanged thoughts with the group, and guided the conversation with quiet authority.

Meanwhile, Adam’s son tapped on the glass. Siron stepped outside, paid for the motorcycle, and carefully asked,

“Was that group therapy?”

“Yeah.”

As the young man counted out the $800 in bills, Siron glanced at the missing person flyer next to the counter—and the pamphlet beside it. It was a brochure introducing a Baggers City group therapy program called Those Who’ve Endured Grief. Siron picked it up, skimmed it, then set it down again.

“You interested?”

“...Huh?”

“We do group therapy on all kinds of topics. If you’re curious, take one with you.”

“Ah... no, I’m good.”

“Self-esteem, depression, substance abuse, anger management, relationship addiction... anything goes. The main center will be finished by the end of this month. You should check it out. ...Crap, I forgot what number I was at.”

He quickly recounted the money and handed Siron the keys. After leaving the shop, Siron filled up the tank and, still in a strange mood, thought back to the woman on the missing poster—Adam’s sister.

She had vanished in December of 2009, and even now, five years later, there was no trace of her. With this much time passed, could she really still be alive?

Siron tried to imagine the sliver of hope and heavy grief her family must still carry. Then he realized something: not long ago, he had been practically a missing person too. He remembered the overwhelming emotion when he reunited with Baekgyeong and Lewis—who had spent days searching for him. But not every missing person was as lucky as Siron.

Still steeped in worry and a strange unease, Siron turned and headed for Curry King.

Like returning to his childhood home, he arrived at Curry King—and was met with an even more unsettling sight. The place was deserted. It looked like a renovation had started and then been abandoned—paint cans, brushes, unfinished tile flooring scattered everywhere. The door was shut tight, and a taped-up notice was posted on the glass.

“Curry King has permanently... closed? ...What the hell?”

The sun-bleached, rumpled paper made Siron’s heart sink. Something must have happened to Iqbal, the owner. But he no longer had the phone with Iqbal and Ashimi’s contact info, so there was no way to reach them.

He asked around—neighbors, other store owners across the street—if anyone knew what had happened to the Curry King owner, but no one had heard anything. All he could gather was that one day, Iqbal’s family had suddenly shut down the shop and transferred it to someone else in a hurry.

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