L*st and Death

Miller collected every bit of information about Siron’s fake identity—“Rowoon Kim”—meticulously pieced together by Siron, Lewis, and Anna.

If Joseph Miller really was involved in Joan Welch’s disappearance, then Rowoon Kim was exactly the kind of homeless man he would target.

A socially isolated outsider—someone no one would notice if he went missing.

“You checked that you wish to relocate outside of Hellsota, to California.”

“Yes.”

“Do you want to go back to your family?”

Miller’s question made Siron lower his head and nod sheepishly, forcing a pathetic smile.

“Yes.”

But Miller’s expression abruptly turned cold and accusatory.

“However, a destination must be confirmed for relocation.

California’s dealing with homelessness just as badly as Hellsota, and they won’t hand out free bus tickets to some worthless nobody without a secured place to stay.

But if you’d like, I can send you south—to the Cotton Belt.

Wouldn’t be a bad life, picking cotton under the sun, all peaceful and pastoral.”

He spat it all out like a machine gun, then burst into laughter, like his own joke had just killed him.

Siron couldn’t tell if Miller was simply trying to be funny—or if there was something malicious underneath.

Even though he wasn’t really homeless, Siron found himself shrinking under the weight of Miller’s presence.

“I really want to go to LA.”

Miller savored Siron’s tense reaction for a moment, then suddenly stood.

He moved behind Siron and placed a hot, damp hand on his shoulder.

“You sure your older brother lives in California?”

“Yes. I’m sure.”

“That’s odd.”

“...What is?”

“‘428’? That’s a Hellsota area code.”

Miller leaned over the document and tapped the emergency contact number—the one that belonged to Lewis.

Shit.

Caught off guard, Siron scrambled for a plausible excuse.

“He... uh... he was planning to start a business here.

So he chose a Hellsota number. You can check if you want.”

Siron’s role in the operation was to provoke Miller into pretending to contact the emergency contact, while trying to persuade Rowoon Kim to join the relocation program—all of it being recorded.

Siron had tried to bait him into lying, but Miller wasn’t biting.

“Well, what do we do? Want me to call?”

Of course you do.

You’re supposed to pretend to call Lewis, lull me into thinking I’m safe, and then try to abduct me.

“Yes, please. If you tell him I’m really struggling, he’ll definitely help.”

But Miller didn’t move.

He toyed with Siron’s desperation like a cat with a mouse, drawing it out far longer than necessary.

“Well, alright. We’ll handle that in a bit. For now, just wait.”

“What? Wait?”

Wait for what?

Was he about to start the abduction?

Siron’s heart dropped.

Then Miller leaned in and took a deep breath beside Siron’s face, exhaling warm, sweet-sour breath in a revolting whisper.

“Where else? Homeless folks should go where the other homeless folks are.”

Things were going more smoothly than Siron expected.

And by “smoothly,” it meant that none of Joseph Miller’s actions could yet be deemed illegal.

He was simply fulfilling his duties as a relocation officer—by the book.

By evening, Siron was seated in the very back row of a bus packed full of homeless people, en route to a public support shelter.

He kept his eyes fixed desperately out the window, because a few passengers were staring at him so intensely it made his skin crawl.

Some had turned in their seats to watch him from halfway across the aisle, gazes empty but persistent—eerily blank, yet unrelenting.

It was enough to make Siron genuinely nervous.

I mean yeah, I’m good-looking, but still—what the hell is with those stares? ...Is it just because Asian homeless people are rare?

Wearing a miserable expression, Siron leaned even closer to the window.

The air outside was still heavy with heat, and though the bus’s air conditioning roared at full blast, the stench was so unbearable that all the windows had been left open.

Warm, fresh air flooded in.

Far off in the distance, sirens were beginning to grow louder.

A dozen or so police cars came barreling across the highway, weaving between lanes.

Their screeching sirens followed seconds later, loud enough to rattle the sky.

A murmur spread among the bus passengers.

That can’t be good.

Curious, Siron checked his phone for news updates—but there was nothing.

[Me]: Did something happen? A ton of cop cars just sped by. 5:53PM

He posted a message in their group chat, but several minutes passed without a reply from Anna.

A sense of unease settled in his gut.

He opened the tracking app to check everyone’s current location.

Baekgyeong’s ID was still offline, as usual.

Anna, by coincidence—or maybe not—was now racing along the very road Siron’s bus was on.

Lewis too.

They were both following the route, tracking the bus in real-time.

A mix of anxiety and relief swept over him.

Then, something black caught his eye in the window.

It was Lewis, riding Siron’s motorcycle.

Even though he was in full black gear and a full-face helmet, Siron recognized him instantly.

Lewis, noticing Siron too, gave a brief nod and then pulled back, disappearing behind the bus.

The nerves stirred up by the sirens settled instantly.

They were running behind on gathering evidence, but Lewis hadn’t lost him.

For now, that was enough.

The bus stopped in front of a three-story building.

A worn-out sign read “Lanford Public Support Shelter,” with a cheery slogan underneath: “A Warm Home Together With the Community.”

“Names being called, please step out.”

A young social worker in black glasses read from a list, calling out names.

But “Rowoon Kim” wasn’t among them.

About half the passengers disembarked.

The bus continued onward, stopping again and again as the number of passengers slowly dwindled.

Evening rush hour traffic had begun to ease.

Siron watched the changing scenery out the window with growing concern.

The sun dipped toward the horizon, and the inside of the bus filled with purplish dusk.

At some point, Lewis’s motorcycle vanished from view.

Siron, growing anxious, checked his phone again.

A message from Anna had come in.

[Anna]: The Lanford Bridge collapsed. I got called in—road’s shut down. Fuck! 6:45PM

Lanford Bridge collapsed?

Why?

It was such a sudden, jarring message.

The Francis Lanford Bridge was an 8-kilometer bridge connecting Baggers City to Captiva Island.

On Captiva—roughly the size of the Big Island of Hawaii—stood the federal maximum-security Somora Prison, an energy research complex, a tourist resort, and a yacht harbor.

They were so proud of their airtight security—guess it finally gave out, huh.

Siron’s first thought was that a group of escapees had broken out of Somora Prison and destroyed the bridge to seize the island.

A wild, comic-book-scale disaster in this miserable city—that’s how it felt.

His palms broke out in sweat, heart pounding with both dread and a rush of adrenaline.

He combed through news sites, but all he could find were headlines like:

“BREAKING: Francis Lanford Bridge in Baggers City collapses”

—nothing of substance.

Community sites were better.

On the front page, a video link showed the Lanford Bridge crumbling like a tower of matchsticks.

But unlike Siron’s worst fears, it wasn’t the result of a terrorist attack by armed criminals.

What the hell kind of idiot—?

The grainy video, taken from a distance, clearly showed a massive container ship crashing into the central support beams of the bridge due to a navigational error.

It wasn’t terrorism, thank god—but the timing couldn’t have been worse.

Evening rush hour.

The roads had been packed.

The death toll was going to be astronomical.

And the bad news kept coming.

[Lewis]: I ran out of gas. I’ll catch up using GPS. Do NOT turn off your phone! 7:03PM

Is it the apocalypse? What the hell is going on today?

Siron quickly sent a message back to the group.

[Me]: Don’t worry about me. I’m fine. Just stay safe out there! 7:05PM

A little later, even the bus passengers began murmuring about the Lanford Bridge collapse.

Until then, the interior had been silent.

Now the atmosphere shifted.

All thoughts of the missing people and Joseph Miller faded from Siron’s mind, drowned out by the news.

His heart pounded as the bus came to another stop in front of a shelter—and all the remaining homeless passengers disembarked.

All of them... except Siron.

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