With a compliant, faint smile, Siron stood in front of the bars as ordered by the men. He moved carefully, making sure not to provoke them or let on that he might be up to anything.
The two armed men were both white. One had a thick black beard braided neatly down his chest; the other, in contrast to the brutish giants common on this island, was relatively short—barely half a head taller than Siron, and had the unassuming look of a high school literature teacher. If all the giants on this island were alphas, and if the defining trait of an alpha was an evolved, oversized physique, then this guy was unusually small for his kind.
He must’ve been short even before he became an alpha.
As Siron stepped outside the bars, stealing a glance at the short one, the bearded man smacked him hard on the crown of the head with his palm.
“Ow!”
“Ow? You think coming out alone’s enough? Selfish little fuck whining already?”
Another punch landed straight on the top of Siron’s skull. It felt like getting clocked by a falling iron from the top shelf—his vision flashed white. Reeling from the pain, Siron barely caught himself against the bars.
“S-sorry.”
“Pathetic fuck.”
The bearded man let out a nasty laugh, clearly enjoying himself, and jabbed Siron’s ribs with the muzzle of his gun. Normally Siron would’ve cussed him out in his head—something like fuckshitbastardpigsow—but the cold pressure of the muzzle against his side made his thoughts bleach out completely.
“Sorry, huh? Then you should’ve had 3547 ready to go—”
“That’s enough. Stop screwing around. Let’s go.”
The short one, stepping out with 3547 in Siron’s stead, cut the bearded man off with a flat, cold tone. Beardface stared at him incredulously and pushed his tongue into his cheek, making it bulge like a marble under his skin.
“What the fuck did you just say?”
“You heard me. Quit messing around and get moving.”
A strange tension hung between the two alphas. Siron held his breath, praying that their aggression wouldn’t spill over onto him.
Beardface snorted like he was letting it go, then grinned.
“Sure. Fine. Let’s move.”
He prodded Siron painfully again with the muzzle.
“What are you standing around for? Get his ass moving.”
“Y-yes! I’ll get him right now!”
Not wanting to give the man another excuse, Siron hurried to collect 3547. Beardface, scowling, opened the door to the outside and ordered Siron to go first, following closely behind. But there was a problem—3547 was a conspiracy-obsessed drug addict.
“S-s-super soldier? I-I don’t wanna be one of those.”
Siron leaned in close to the man’s stinking ear and whispered sharply.
“Shut up. Just move if you don’t want a beating.”
“Uuuhhhng! I said no!”
Siron caught a glimpse of Beardface’s narrowed eyes drilling into them and hissed through his teeth.
“Shut the fuck up and go already. You’re gonna get me hit too.”
“Y-you... You’re being mind-controlled with telepathy, aren’t you?”
Oh, fuck off.
Siron screamed inside his head—but suddenly, a flash of inspiration.
“Telepathy? Come on. We’re going to do something special, remember?”
“...Special? At the lab?”
“Yeah.”
“But the shot they gave me yesterday didn’t... do anything.”
“Today’s different. This time it’s a perfect-crime level drug. It'll mellow you right out. Trust me, yeah?”
He delivered it with just enough flair to sound plausible—like something genuinely exciting awaited them. A flicker of manic light entered the drug addict’s cloudy eyes. 3547 rushed up the hill like a starving rat chasing cheese.
Whatever. I’ll clean up the mess later.
Siron kept pace with 3547, hustling uphill while the two alphas tailed them in an electric cart. His eyes darted, scanning the surroundings.
The island had a strange topography. From a sandy beach, the land gradually sloped upward before ending in cliffs—forming a right-angled triangle of a tropical island. One end low, the other high; from the cliff edge, you could see the entire island laid out below. With only scattered palm trees and no dense foliage, there was nowhere to hide.
The buildings had been constructed to take advantage of the terrain. On the higher cliffs near the edge were the alpha dormitories and a small thermal generator. Midway down sat the research lab, and below that, an old building housing the kidnapped victims. A guard post had been erected near the docks on the beach, closely monitoring all incoming and outgoing traffic. It was an island in the middle of the sea—one with no conceivable escape route.
The sunlight was brutal. The patchy shadows cast by the palm trees offered no real relief. Siron felt like a weed torn from its roots, drying out in the sun—ready to crumble into hay.
Still, the lab has air conditioning... I’ll ask for some water.
A cold glass of water in exchange for letting them draw his blood and inject him. Air conditioning to escape the sweltering [N O V E L I G H T] heat for a moment. It was dangerous—he knew that—but part of him still longed for that temporary comfort.
Yesterday, an older man in a white coat—Siron assumed he was a doctor—had drawn his blood and administered an injection. Siron was deeply worried. Was it okay to be injected with unknown substances while in the middle of a forced omega transformation? But he had no way to refuse.
“Alpha and Homo... sapiens? What’s the difference, like 0.01 percent?”
“0.6 percent.”
“And that means... what? What’s so different?”
“It means alphas are 0.6 percent more evolved than modern humans.”
Suddenly, Isaac Bazelli’s words resurfaced. He’d once said that the genetic difference between alphas and Homo sapiens was only 0.6%. If omegas also differed from humans by roughly that amount, a blood analysis might expose Siron’s anomaly.
Even if I keep my head straight, there’s no way out this time.
The sky was about to collapse on him, but Siron couldn’t think of a single solution. Desperate, he scanned his surroundings—and spotted two steel towers.
The towers stood at symmetrical points on either side of the island. Each had a glass-paneled observatory halfway up, and a massive domed antenna dangling from the top. They looked like something out of a sci-fi movie—equipment meant to contact aliens.
Satellite communication equipment.
If this island was a base for all sorts of illegal activity, it had to be far from any mainland. Satellite internet would be cheaper than laying undersea cables out here.
Not that it matters. There’s still no way to contact the outside.
Were Anna and Lewis looking for him? But how would they ever find him? Just as he had failed to track Baekgyeong, they would fail to find him.
“...That fucking psycho.”
Beardface’s annoyed muttering snapped Siron out of his thoughts.
“If it weren’t for orders from the top, I’d have half-killed him by now.”
Siron almost responded, thinking they were talking to him—but caught himself and held his breath.
“He creeps me out,” the short one replied calmly. “Something’s just... off about him.”
Beardface’s voice rose, more animated.
“Yesterday he tried to tear off his collar bomb because he didn’t like the dinner menu. Said he didn’t care if he died.”
“Was he just bluffing?”
“No. He really tried it. If we hadn’t dogpiled him and stopped him, his fucking head would’ve exploded. I wish it had.”
So there was someone else on this island—a different abductee. Someone dangerous enough to be fitted with a bomb collar, and valuable enough not to be killed.
A dangerous psycho. A ticking time bomb who invited punches with every smug, arrogant move. Siron had known someone like that once. He couldn’t confirm if he was alive or dead—but back then, every time he saw that face, he’d wanted to smack it. Then smack it again on the same swollen spot.
“What was it this time?” asked the short one.
“He wants a new menu. Said he wants Korean food.”
“Korean?”
“Yesterday he said... I dunno. Egg rolls and kim... Kimcheechi? Kimchijjigae? Something like that.”
“What’s that?”
“Beats me.”
Siron froze.
A jolt like lightning struck his scalp, sending electricity down his spine. His heart pounded so hard it felt like it might crack a rib. The electric cart carrying the alphas was nearly at his back.
“Why’d you stop? Keep moving.”
Without thinking, Siron turned around.
“I, uh... I’m good at Korean food.”
“What?”
“Do you... need a cook? I’m a cook. I make really good kimchijjigae...”
“You... You eavesdropping on us?”
Beardface jumped down from the cart, pointing his gun at Siron with a look like he’d shoot any second. The short one intervened calmly.
“Maybe you wouldn’t be overheard if you didn’t yap so damn much.”
He pushed the gun muzzle down and looked at Siron.
“Don’t get any ideas.”
“B-but I really do make great kimchijjigae—”
“Didn’t you hear him? Shut it.”
Beardface swung the rifle threateningly. Siron flinched and clamped his mouth shut, narrowly avoiding a blow to the head.
That bloated, dumpling-shaped shitpig bastard’s got a personality to match his face.
Still, he couldn’t give up. There was only one person Siron knew who was insane enough to demand kimchijjigae on a deserted island where they didn’t even have cabbage.
It had to be Baekgyeong. Kimchijjigae, white rice, and egg rolls—the ultimate Korean meal. It was his favorite.
Thank god. You’re alive.
That lunatic’s absurd behavior, once so detestable, had never felt so welcome. It was like Siron had found a crack of light in the sky that had collapsed around him.
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