L*st and Death

As soon as Ikbal turned into the alleyway leading to Curry King, cutting through the pouring rain, he sensed something was off. Between a vape shop and a cheap motel, cars were illegally parked along the narrow road, and a line of people with umbrellas had formed, waiting for something. In all his seven years running Curry King, he had never once experienced anything like this: an opening rush.

With no parking left in front of the shop, Ikbal had to leave his car in a distant vacant lot and return on foot. He checked the time the moment he stepped inside.

7:57 a.m.—still more than two and a half hours before business hours.

He had no clue what kind of rumors could’ve spread during their three-day break to cause such a scene. But his curiosity was quickly answered.

“Does this person work here?”

Ikbal, setting down the bag of groceries he’d been carrying, pressed himself up against the door to input the passcode. Just as the lock clicked open, a woman behind him spoke again.

“This person, right here.”

She held out her phone in front of his face. On the screen was a photo of Siron, beaming with a bright smile.

Ikbal’s mind worked quickly. To him, Yoon Siron was nothing more than a kind and obedient idiot—a disposable lackey. He often forgot that Siron had once been a somewhat well-known actor back in Korea. He wasn’t sure what had happened over the holiday, but it seemed word had gotten out that Siron was working at Curry King.

Ikbal glanced at the people lined up outside in the early morning. Most of them were young women, but a few men were there too, waiting for a chance to enter. Among them were several with professional camera equipment—likely reporters.

“Never seen him before. Doesn’t work here.”

“If you look at this photo, maybe you’ll recognize him? It was taken here last week while he was working.”

The woman’s companion nodded solemnly in agreement. Ikbal snorted.

“Ah, right. I know him.”

“Really?!”

“He kept dropping plates. Useless as hell, so I fired him.”

The woman’s jaw dropped dumbly, but Ikbal responded with disinterest.

“We open at ten-thirty.”

He shut the door and locked it quickly, afraid the crowd would rush in before they even opened for business. The moment he did, the line of customers began to lose order, fanning out and crowding around the shop entrance.

Watching them through the glass with anxious eyes, Ikbal sighed and retreated into the kitchen. He figured he’d have to call in his son to work Siron’s shift.

---

Siron spat out a mouthful of toothpaste foam into the sink and looked up at the sky through the metal bars on his window. The sky was thick with black clouds, and a heavy downpour lashed the city. But no giant meteor was falling, no aliens descending from space to attack Earth.

It was just a rainy Friday morning. And Siron had no choice but to go to work.

“Ha... Fucking aliens. Lazy-ass bastards. Can’t count on them for anything.”

Cursing the heavens, he let out a sigh so deep it felt like the ground might cave in beneath him. After three precious days of rest, the idea of returning to routine made him want to die. Worse still, the injection from the clinical trial was clearly having side effects: a dull ache lingered across his lower abdomen and groin. Peeing was especially uncomfortable—the stream was weak, and a throbbing pain stabbed at his belly.

“Feels like the symptoms are getting worse...”

He considered calling Dr. Johnson to report his condition, but then jolted in panic when he checked the time. He didn’t have the luxury of spacing out thinking about clinical trials. Swishing his mouth out with water, he hurried through his shower and got ready for work.

But just as he was slipping his foot into his sports sandal, his phone rang. Ashimi.

—Don’t come in right now.

Siron froze mid-motion, hand gripping the heel strap of his sandal.

“Don’t come in?”

—Yeah. The boss says just cover the closing shift. He’ll stop by tonight.

“...Why?”

—Your fans showed up.

Siron’s heart sank. His legs almost gave out. It felt like the inevitable had finally caught up to him.

—Ron, are you listening?

“...Yeah.”

—The boss told them you got fired for being bad at your job, but they won’t leave.

“Oh come on! Did he really have to say I got fired because I suck?! That’s fucking humiliating!”

Fuming, Siron stomped his feet in frustration.

—Spoiled much? Be grateful. The boss’s son is filling in for you. You just have to do the closing shift.

“...Yeah, fine.”

He’d once wished for a global disaster—meteor strike, alien invasion, anything—to delay his return to work. Now it felt like a cruel divine punishment had come in the form of public humiliation. From a god he didn’t even believe in.

He had a hunch about who was responsible. Four people who’d sat in the corner of the restaurant last time, stealing glances at him. They had stirred the still waters of his life.

Sick to his stomach, Siron’s face went pale. He forced a joke out of his dry mouth.

“Sorry, Ashimi. Making you do deliveries alone in this rain. Whatever curse you throw at me, I’ll accept it without complaint.”

—It’s raining anyway. We’re not doing deliveries today. I unplugged the phone too—calls kept coming in asking for you.

“...That bad?”

—What kind of life did you live back in Korea, man?

“Don’t start. You know most of it.”

—You wish. Anyway, there are too many dine-in customers. It’s chaos.

“Even in this rain? All of them came for me?”

As he spoke, Ashimi seemed to be moving—thick rainfall and the sound of tires on wet roads bled into the call.

—Let’s just say there’s a handful of your cute little nerds, but the rest are older guys with cameras. Since your face is out there now, maybe try leaning into the whole hardworking image.

Ashimi had more complaints to offer about the rude customers loitering around waiting for something to happen, but the call was cut short as the boss came out and started nagging him.

Siron stared at his phone long after the call ended.

“What the hell are they saying about me now...”

He wrestled with the pitiful urge to search “Yoon Siron” and collect every vulgar insult being thrown at him. He’d played it cool on the phone, but he hadn’t felt this helpless in years. Like a filthy rag, soaked through and rotting.

His once-peaceful life was being invaded again—by the shameful past he’d tried to bury.

This is why you have to be honest on your résumé.

Siron still wanted to act. Even after coming to America, he’d sent out clips and headshots, chasing any chance to perform again. And at the bottom of every résumé, he always included a final line as a kind of preemptive shield:

“Previously paid penalties due to scandal.”

Sometimes, that transparency led to interviews with curious casting agents—but in the end, he was always rejected.

It was the same with regular jobs. Rather than wait for his past to blow up in his face, Siron often just brought it up himself—his old life as an actor in Korea, lighting the fuse with his own hands. After a few searches, people could learn everything. From there, only two outcomes were possible: either they’d meet him out of curiosity and send him away, or they wouldn’t contact him at all.

Ikbal, the boss at Curry King, had hired him with a shrug. According to rumor, Ikbal’s wife had grown curious after the interview and watched one of Siron’s movies. Despite learning about the scandal, she insisted they hire him.

“I’m sure the boss saw this coming. He won’t be disappointed if I quit.”

Just thinking about going through the whole job hunt again exhausted him. But then, a thought struck him, and he opened an app on his phone. The one Ashimi had installed before—Fresh Eats.

“Maybe it’s because they just launched, but the terms look pretty decent.”

Like Ashimi said, he could earn per delivery, collect tips, and make far more than now if he worked diligently. Just the thought of having another option made him feel like he could breathe again. Siron finally peeled off the clothes he had reluctantly put on.

He stepped out of the cramped living room—just wide enough for a two-person couch and a TV to face each other—into his tiny bedroom, which barely held a creaky metal bed, a lamp, and a single wardrobe.

Lying down with the lamp above his bed switched on, Siron opened an email he’d received ten days ago from Kim Jiyeon.

Uncle, I need tuition for the second semester.

Can you send it by August 20?

It’s 7.6 million won.

Let me know when you’ve checked.

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