L*st and Death

“Wait.”

Just as Siron steeled himself, Anna raised her index finger to her lips, signaling him to stay silent.

From above the stairwell, came the murmur of voices and the sound of approaching footsteps.

Siron focused on Anna’s expression, thinking that one of the voices sounded vaguely familiar—like something he’d heard before.

As Anna listened carefully to the movements above, her expression suddenly hardened.

She quickly shoved Siron toward the corner—just beyond the line of sight from the stairs—a concealed restroom entrance, hidden from the direct view of anyone descending.

Who is it? Why?

Someone. One of those people.

Siron cautiously peeked around the corner.

A tall man in a light-colored linen shirt and black slacks was coming down the stairs alongside a shorter man with a tired face, dotted with moles.

Both were middle-aged, but it was the taller man who drew Siron’s eye.

A middle-aged man who could dominate his surroundings with nothing but his presence and personal style—now that was rare.

And he looked strangely familiar.

One of those people who’ve overcome grief.

When Siron had visited the motorcycle shop to buy a secondhand bike, he’d stumbled upon a group therapy session.

That tall man had been leading it—he was the counselor at the center of the circle.

He had talked about conducting group therapy for a wide range of issues: self-esteem, depression, substance abuse, anger management, relationship addiction, and more.

Since most of the homeless population remained in a vulnerable psychological state, the counselor appeared to be running therapy programs targeting them.

“In September, let’s begin personalized treatment sessions. I want to try crisis intervention workshops with individuals who stand out.”

“Individuals who stand out?”

“People who avoid participating in group therapy. Those without the will to recover, with low chances of social reintegration...”

The white-haired man, speaking enthusiastically to the mole-faced one about launching a new program, suddenly paused.

As if sensing something, he turned his head toward where Siron was hiding.

Yikes—Siron immediately pulled back behind the corner.

They had only briefly crossed paths at Adam’s motorcycle shop, but enough to possibly recognize each other’s faces.

Showing up here dressed as a homeless man would definitely raise suspicion.

Siron held his breath and stayed perfectly still.

In the cold silence of the building’s lobby, the footsteps resumed.

A moment later, the two men passed through the lobby and exited the building.

Siron exhaled, relieved, and gave Anna a puzzled look.

Anna returned it with an equally wary expression.

“I saw that white-haired guy when I went to buy the motorcycle. He was running a group therapy session in a large room in the back.”

“Adam’s Bike... You bought it there?”

“Huh? You know Adam?”

“I met him through Jackson’s counseling group. Adam’s little sister has been missing for a long time.”

“Jackson?”

“Yeah. That white-haired guy is Jackson Cliff.”

“So you’ve been avoiding the center because of Jackson Cliff too?”

“Yeah.”

“Why?”

Letting out a sigh, Anna checked around the corner before answering.

“I was in therapy for quite a while.

After Lewis’s accident, I stopped going.

Everyone in the group—Jackson included—thinks Lewis is dead.

They keep trying to comfort me, and I couldn’t bring myself to tell the truth or even make up an excuse, so I’ve been avoiding them.”

Anna pressed her lips shut, then added with a faint flush in her cheeks:

“He’s aged pretty well, hasn’t he?”

“...You into older men?”

Anna grimaced dramatically.

“I just said I think he’s graceful, okay? ...If Jackson were twenty years younger, maybe I’d have made a move.”

Cautiously, Anna stepped out into the lobby and checked the parking lot outside.

Jackson and the director of the Homeless Support Center were driving off together.

Only once they were gone did she finally relax.

She lifted Siron’s waistband and activated the recorder hidden inside the handmade inner pocket.

Then, she walked into the welfare center, where a faint, musty stench lingered in the air—typical of a space often used by unwashed homeless clients.

Anna headed straight toward a young social worker wearing black horn-rimmed glasses.

“Can I help you?”

Recognizing her, the worker gave Anna’s police badge a cursory glance, then asked.

“I’m here for this guy.”

Anna gestured to Siron, who was standing beside her like a keychain.

With his head bowed low, Siron looked like the picture of a scruffy vagrant.

The man handed him a form and a pen.

“Can you read and write?”

“Uh? ...Yes.”

“Fill this out.”

Siron filled out the form standing up.

Name, birthdate, current and former residences, medical information, Social Security number, emergency contact.

All of it was false—prearranged with Anna, all under the fake identity of a man named Rowoon Kim.

After checking a few details, the man looked dissatisfied and shifted his gaze toward Anna.

“The Social Security number doesn’t return anything.”

“He said he can’t remember it.”

As Anna forced a sheepish smile, the man gave Siron a suspicious look, sighed, then turned to someone he had clearly been monitoring from the start—someone who’d been watching Siron specifically.

“Mr. Miller. Could you help us with this one?”

Anna leaned in close to Siron and whispered quickly.

That bastard is Joseph Miller.

The man fixed his gaze on Siron and slowly stood up.

As the large figure approached, Siron thought to himself:

Fuck me.

He looked to be about 6'2".

His footsteps were light, oddly graceful in a way that didn’t match his massive frame—something about it felt wrong.

“It’s getting ridiculous. Homeless people just keep pouring in.”

Despite his complaint, Miller was humming cheerfully as he nodded at Anna.

He snatched the form from the young worker’s hands and skimmed it in one swift motion.

After scanning the form, he raised his head and looked Siron straight in the eye.

His red, bulbous nose and faintly glowing pinkish skin gave him the air of a circus clown.

His face was broad, but his eyes were oddly small and glinted in a way that seemed almost sinister.

After scrutinizing Siron’s face, Miller suddenly beamed, his mouth stretching unnaturally wide.

“Let’s go upstairs. I’ll show you the way.”

“U-Upstairs? Where to?”

Seeing Siron’s fearful reaction, Miller put a hand over his chest with an exaggerated look of pity.

“Where else? The office on the second floor.”

“D-Do I have to go?”

Siron stammered badly, glancing back at Anna in desperation.

Anna shot a quick glance at Miller, then gave him a grim nod.

Siron was soon led to a small office on the second floor, where he sat across from Miller at a worktable.

“Let’s be honest. You’re an undocumented immigrant, aren’t you?”

“N-No. I-I really was born in the U.S.”

Trying to stay in character as Rowoon Kim—a dim-witted, nervous drug addict—Siron answered in a shaky, raspy voice.

“Born in the U.S., and you made it to this age without memorizing your Social Security number?

If you’re lying, I’m gonna have to punish you, you know.”

“P-Punish me? You mean—I’ll go to jail?”

“Well... What do you think I mean?”

Miller’s pupils gleamed dark and oily.

He grinned lewdly, revealing uneven teeth stained a dirty yellow.

Something felt wrong.

Siron, pitifully late, was only now beginning to realize what kind of situation he was truly in.

Anyone connected to the homeless disappearances couldn’t possibly be ordinary—and yet he’d let his guard down.

“If you’re not lying, then maybe your brain’s fried from too much drug use?”

“It’s not that bad...”

“Your family’s all in California?”

“Yes.”

“And your relationship with them?”

“...Not good. Uh—except with my oldest brother. We got along okay.”

“‘Got along okay,’ huh...”

Miller paused, cocking his head slightly, as though savoring Siron’s discomfort.

“If you were close, why’d your brother let you rot on the street?

Does he even know you’re living like this?”

“...He doesn’t.”

“Hm. So you’ve been out of contact for quite some time.”

His voice dropped, now serious.

“What brought you to Hellsota?”

“...I followed a boyfriend.”

“Let me guess. Got addicted to drugs, broke up, ended up on the street.”

“Yes.”

Siron fiddled with the hem of his shirt, answering with difficulty.

But Miller wasn’t satisfied. He pushed harder.

“According to the form, you’ve been using pretty steadily.

How have you been supporting yourself?”

“Well... um, at Summers Park...”

“Ah, so you were selling yourself at Summers Park.

Hmm, if I’d been lucky, I might’ve been one of your clients.”

“...What?”

“Ha ha, just kidding.”

Miller stared at Siron with a look of amusement, like he was playing a game.

Why the fuck is his face that disgusting shade of pink? He looks like two slabs of discount ham fucked and gave birth to him. And the way he’s looking at me—so greasy I wanna stab his eyes out.

Even as he hurled silent curses, Siron averted his gaze in embarrassment and scratched the back of his head.

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