L*st and Death

“I’ll be heading out, then.”

“Wait!”

Just as Siron was about to leave for the next call, a staff member stopped him and handed over a paper envelope.

“Please take this tip.”

The front of the cream-colored envelope had the words Thank You written in bold, elegant script. It was a special envelope meant for giving tips to service workers.

“You two can split it between yourselves.”

“Thank you.”

Just moments ago, he’d been weighed down by concern over the missing people, but the instant he accepted the envelope, all his worries seemed to vanish. As soon as Siron exited the seminar room and stepped into the elevator, he opened the tip envelope.

“...Holy shit!”

Inside were two $100 bills. Two hundred dollars in tips—for a single delivery. Maybe it was because the deputy governor had ordered; their tipping scale was clearly on another level.

Without realizing it, Siron almost slipped the envelope into his pocket without even mentioning splitting it with Lewis. He wasn’t a scam artist, exactly, but he did have a lukewarm relationship with his own conscience. But the moment he saw Lewis grinning proudly at him, Siron realized this was one of those times he had to shake hands with that conscience.

Just like my money matters to me, even a rich person’s “one cent” hundred dollars must matter to them too.

In the end, Siron handed Lewis one of the bills.

“Here, take a hundred bucks. You should get a taste of honest labor too.”

But Lewis didn’t take the bill until the elevator reached the basement.

“It’s fine. Let’s just get the next call.”

“You worked hard today too. Just take it already.”

Siron, who wanted to give it but also didn’t want to, waved the bill at Lewis with zero sincerity.

“...If you’re that desperate to give it to me, I guess I won’t refuse.”

Maybe it wasn’t the sincerity that got through—maybe Lewis just felt bad for refusing so many times. Looking a little sheepish, he finally accepted the bill from Siron.

“I liked it. Felt like a date with Bebe. I’m gonna keep it as a memento.”

“A—A memento? Sure... ha.”

Siron forced an awkward laugh and thought to himself:

Isn’t it normal to refuse at least three times? Maybe I’ve just been too Korean-brained about this.

Just as he was about to mourn the $100 that had vanished before his eyes, a notification chimed on his phone. An email icon appeared at the top of the screen.

It was the message he’d been waiting for. The results from the DNA analysis report submitted to Quest Genetics. Since they didn’t know V3011’s identity, the sample had been submitted under the name “John Doe.”

Siron and Lewis immediately returned home and headed to the study. Siron turned on his laptop and opened the email. A PDF of the DNA report was attached. He downloaded the file and opened it—smoothly formatted, the first page of the report appeared.

According to the report, John Doe’s paternal DNA had strong links to indigenous groups from Southern Europe and South America. His maternal genetic line matched with a specific indigenous group in Beljoras.

Siron and Lewis closely examined the map included in the report. As described, red dots marked regions across Southern Europe, including Spain and Portugal, as well as Beljoras. It was likely these were the areas where his ancestors had lived.

“He’s from Beljoras.”

Lewis pointed to the country situated between Mexico and Honduras. At his confident tone, Siron gestured toward Europe and asked:

“Couldn’t he be European too?”

“That just means one of V3011’s ancestors was European. A long time ago, a bunch of Europeans colonized South America and migrated to Beljoras. That’s why there are so many mixed-race people there. More importantly... if he was kidnapped, it’s far more likely it happened in Beljoras, where the security situation is a mess, than in Europe.”

“...Yeah, I guess that makes sense.”

Siron nodded, eyes still on the map. Helsota State was a peninsula jutting out from the United States, and Beljoras was similarly a massive peninsula jutting north from Central America. The Gulf of Mexico and the Atlantic Ocean met between the two, and illegal smuggling and immigration from Beljoras into the U.S. was rampant.

With a serious look, Lewis said,

“Maybe V3011 was smuggled into the U.S. from Beljoras—like an illegal export.”

To think a human being could be treated like an illegal export. Siron leaned back in his chair, arms crossed. Hearing the name Beljoras had caused Isaac’s face to flare vividly in his mind. His instincts told him—Isaac Bazelli was involved in human trafficking.

“I served as a soldier briefly.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“......Beljoras.”

A former soldier stationed in Beljoras, now wearing a white lab coat conducting suspicious clinical trials. He had once tried to transform countless people—including Siron—into omegas under the pretense of pharmaceutical clinical trials.

What if Etas were a kind of side effect created during the process of producing omegas?

What if some of the failed lab rats—those who survived—were “delivered” to Hybris?

The more Siron thought, the tighter his chest felt.

Even after being used and betrayed by Isaac, part of him still couldn’t let go of the belief that Isaac might be innocent. He hated himself for that, but he kept coming up with excuses Isaac himself wouldn’t even know—trying to convince himself there was some unavoidable reason. Stockholm Syndrome had clearly softened his brain. As much as he hated it, Siron couldn’t fully abandon his faith in Isaac Bazelli.

He forced himself to think of the photos stored in the desk drawer in the study. They were pictures retrieved from the urology clinic rooftop—images of victims. Most of them were already dead, their bodies marked by fire and water damage. A few looked like they might’ve survived, but the damage made it nearly impossible to identify them. Still, they’d probably ended up dead too—killed by Isaac’s hands.

I could’ve been one of them.

Another corpse, captured in a photo, collected by Isaac Bazelli. A final portrait of the late Yoon Siron. His heart felt frozen solid.

“Siron.”

He had been lost in thought too long. Under Lewis’s gaze, Siron imagined himself breaking down like a child. Lewis’s large, warm hands would rub his back gently, wipe away his tears. Shaking Isaac’s image from his head, Siron answered:

“First, let’s check if there are any DNA matches.”

They scrolled to the bottom of the email from the lab. There was a link to the DNA-matching service they’d paid extra for. The site was called “DNA Relationship,” specializing in ancestry tracing and familial matching.

Lewis signed up using the QR link provided, registering the user as “John Doe” to maintain anonymity. He also adjusted the settings to prevent others from seeing the profile.

Clicking through the menu—ethnic ancestry, genetic disease risk, medication reactions—Lewis chose the one at the very bottom: “Matched Family.”

A DNA match has been found. View your newly connected relatives!

A world map appeared on the screen, with three red dots. Next to each dot was the percent of shared DNA and a brief identification label.

“No way... there’s actually someone?”

Surprisingly, there was someone with a significant genetic match to V3011. Both Lewis and Siron exhaled in relief.

“What does 3.28% mean? How close is that?”

Siron asked. Lewis replied:

“Not sure. Let’s check.”

He clicked on the 3.28% icon.

Estimated relationship: Grandchild of my great-grandmother’s sibling / Grandchild of my great-grandfather’s sibling.

“If it’s your parents’ cousin, then they’d be second cousins to you.”

Lewis explained simply that this person was about a fifth-degree relative to V3011.

“So not super distant, then.”

Lewis opened the profile of the 3.28% match. Fortunately, it was set to public. A woman in her thirties, residing in Beljoras.

The moment he saw her profile, Siron’s chest dropped. He suddenly couldn’t tell if informing her—or other families connected to the missing—was the right thing to do.

“Should we tell the family?”

“We can’t tell them everything.”

“Then what?”

“Right now, it’s more important to gather evidence.”

“For a report?”

“Not yet, but someday we’ll have to. We don’t have another choice.”

Fair point. Lewis, Siron, Anna, and Baekgyeong—outsiders, whether by choice or force. What else could a ragtag group like them do but go to the press?

If they were lucky, maybe a major outlet would listen. Maybe then, the forced prostitution ring run by the Hybris Baggers City chapter, the missing homeless from the shelter, and the true cause of Vile Group CEO Choi Baekhee’s death would be revealed to the world. Under international scrutiny, the perpetrators might be punished, and the victims rescued, returned to their families.

But Siron still wasn’t sure. Could that really solve everything? Even if the media exposed it all and incited public backlash, would every guilty party really be held accountable?

And what if—worst of all—Yoon Siron’s status as an omega was revealed in the process? Being an alpha was alien enough. A being who sexually responds to pheromones—that was a freak show waiting to happen.

He let out a long, heavy sigh, his head bowed low.

No matter how he looked at it, Lewis and Anna weren’t the lifeline he needed. But he didn’t have the courage to chase after the Linhart police chief and force Isaac to “fix” him either. They say even if the sky falls, there’s always a hole to crawl out through. But for him, it felt like that didn’t apply.

Figures. My life’s always been like this. When has anything ever gone the way I wanted?

Consumed by despair, Siron paused mid-whine. A lightning bolt of realization hit him.

They say the darkest place is under the lamp... and they were right!

He couldn’t believe he had completely forgotten. But the truth was—he did have a lifeline. He did have a rope to climb out of the hole.

The youngest son of Vile Group Pharmaceuticals: Baekgyeong.

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