L*st and Death

“3543?”

Siron, eyes vacant, was staring at a video of a man and woman having sex on a monitor while trying to figure out how to reunite with Baekgyeong. If he couldn’t cook kimchijjigae and use it to reveal himself to Baekgyeong, then at the very least, he needed to figure out where Baekgyeong was located.

There were only three facilities on the island capable of housing people: the communal housing used as alpha dormitories, the five-story research lab in the center, and the two buildings on the southern end used to contain the kidnapped victims.

“3543. Are you listening to me?”

Still thinking about Baekgyeong, Siron blankly stared at the scrunched-up face of the woman pinned under the massive man on screen. Her moans, and the voice calling out to him from across the room, all sounded distorted and distant—like sounds underwater.

“3543! Are you watching the video or not?”

The blade-like voice pierced the Baekgyeong-filled fog in his head, and Siron jolted back to reality. He was inside the research facility. In fact, he was currently in the middle of an experiment with the very doctor who had injected him with an unknown drug the day before.

Startled, Siron turned his eyes to the monitor. The man and woman on screen were in the middle of violent intercourse.

“Y-yes? Uh, yes. I am watching.”

“You don’t look like you are. Focus on the video.”

Watching porn in front of an elderly gentleman made Siron squirm with shame. He reached up to scratch his neck—but was blocked by the wire attached to it. It was connected to a soft patch the doctor had stuck to the back of his neck earlier.

“Don’t touch that. Eyes on the screen.”

Obediently folding his hands, Siron returned his gaze to the monitor. After a few seconds, a different video began to play. This one was filled with grotesque imagery: animals being slaughtered, children beaten. Viscerally disturbing.

Why are they showing me this? ...What are they trying to measure by showing me these videos?

He couldn’t stop thinking about the patch on his neck. Siron watched the video with a blurry, unfocused gaze, trying to guess the reason. Isaac Bazelli had once told him that an Imprint occurred “when an alpha leaves a mark on the back of an omega’s neck during rut.”

Did something form on my neck? Like a pheromone leak or... something like that?

As the footage grew increasingly brutal, Siron bit his lip. The doctor was clearly trying to induce either sexual arousal or emotional stress through the video stimuli.

Is this related to the shot from yesterday? I’m seriously fucked if I lose my composure, aren’t I?

To avoid watching the forced playback, Siron focused his eyes on the tip of his own nose. His vision blurred, the horrific imagery reduced to gray fog. It still wasn’t enough. To maintain his calm, he deliberately forced his mind to think about Baekgyeong and the food he’d asked for. If there was no kimchi for kimchijjigae, what ingredients could substitute to replicate the same spicy flavor? He mentally reviewed recipes, and before long, the video ended.

The patch on Siron’s neck was peeled off, and the two of them moved to a separate room and sat across from each other at a table.

“Answer my question. Since the injection, have there been any changes in your health? Tell me in as much detail as possible.”

It was the kind of question that reminded Siron of his clinical trial days at Dr. Johnson’s urology practice. Despite everything that had happened since, the memory of Dr. Johnson’s medical exams came back with perfect clarity. Siron answered:

“I... I don’t think there’s been any change.”

“No change at all?”

Siron rolled his eyes slightly, pretending to think it over again.

“I had a headache yesterday. Other than that, I’m not sure yet.”

The eyes behind the doctor’s glasses sharpened, scanning Siron’s face.

“You’ve taken a pretty bad beating. The stress of the new environment and the violence might have caused the headache.”

The man clicked his tongue lightly, muttering to himself.

“I told them—no violence.”

What, a pacifist?

That caught Siron’s interest, and he quickly studied the man.

He looked like a South Asian–mixed white in his late fifties to early sixties. His hair was streaked with gray, his skin tanned and dark, and his expression soured like he was holding a bitter pill in his mouth. Most notably, he wasn’t an alpha.

Wasn’t this the type they called a beta? Siron swallowed and leaned in cautiously.

“Um... May I ask you something?”

The doctor nodded absently while typing something into his laptop.

“How do you get meals here at the lab?”

The doctor paused, seemingly caught off guard. He raised his head and narrowed his eyes at Siron.

“Down in the cells, they serve frozen burritos. What’s on the menu up here?”

The doctor stared at him for a long moment before letting out a heavy sigh.

“Most people ask what kind of experiment they’re involved in. And you’re asking about the menu? Why does that matter to you? Don’t tell me... you’re hoping to eat here?”

“I-I was just worried you might not be getting a balanced diet, sir.”

Siron squeezed his eyes shut and blurted it out—then added, with forced cheer:

“Do you, uh, maybe need a cook?”

“...What?”

“I—I make amazing curry. I trained for almost ten years as a disciple of a master chef at an Indian restaurant in Helsota.”

In reality, Curry King wasn’t some gourmet establishment—it was a curry takeout joint. Siron had only worked there as a delivery guy for two years, learning the recipes by peeking over shoulders. But who the hell knew? At this point, he had to lie through his teeth if it meant survival.

“And I’m good with Korean food too! Do you know kimchijjigae? It’s a Korean soul food—kimchi stew. I make a mean kimchijjigae, sir. If you hire me as a chef, I promise I’ll open your eyes to a whole new world. Please, hire me. Please?”

The doctor listened in silence, his expression unreadable. Siron even let a tear slip for good measure, performing with his whole heart—but the man’s face stayed cold.

“Do I seem approachable to you just because I look more ordinary than those giant brutes?”

“...Sir?”

“If so, you really don’t know how to read people.”

After a short silence, the doctor shut his laptop. His voice was like a blade of frost as he said:

“Get the hell out of my sight.”

Siron waited for 3547 in the hallway, sitting on a bench outside the blood draw room, silently analyzing what had gone wrong.

A movie journalist once said that Siron’s tears had the kind of magic that could break hearts. But the tears that had once moved countless fans had shattered uselessly against the doctor’s ice-cold heart. It must’ve been his face—bruised and swollen—making his emotional appeal fall flat.

“...Damn. Didn’t work.”

“What didn’t work?”

The short one, leaning against the wall across from him, asked while flipping through a book.

“Huh? Oh, nothing.”

The short one gave Siron a suspicious look, then went back to his book. His rifle was slung casually over one shoulder, and he held a small paperback in his free hand. The relaxed posture suggested he didn’t even consider the possibility of Siron lunging to take his gun.

The book’s title was Anna Karenina. Just the sight of the word “Anna” made Siron think of curry again and set his mood spiraling.

“You Korean?”

The short one looked up and slid the book into his back pocket. He took a long breath, then asked.

“I’m Korean-American.”

“You really know how to cook Korean food?”

“Y-yeah. I make great kimchijjigae!”

“Don’t get excited. I’m not planning to make you a cook.”

Siron deflated immediately.

“Then... what’s going to happen to me?”

The short one gave a shrug, like he’d heard that question a thousand times before, and didn’t bother answering. Just then, 3547 emerged from the examination room, cutting off any chance for further conversation.

Outside the research facility, a different alpha had replaced Beardface. Like the others, he was huge and muscular—indistinguishable from the rest. He slouched over to the short one and stood in front of him. The short one frowned.

“Where’s Ted? Why are you here?”

“Swapped in.”

“What’s Ted doing?”

The new alpha jerked his hips and laughed crudely.

“What do you think? Off fucking the Eta.”

“I told him—no messing around during shift hours.”

The alpha ignored him and eyed Siron and 3547 with open disapproval. Clicking his tongue, he jabbed 3547 in the ribs with his rifle.

“What’re you slouching for? Get your ass back to the holding cell.”

Ian Fitzner stepped into the elevator, thinking about curry. Maybe it was because Manu Singh, the lab director, had brought up curry as a potential “special menu item”—but the thought of it clung to his mind.

When was the last time he’d eaten curry? He’d been vegetarian since age twelve and had eaten more than his fair share of vegan curries. But after coming to the island, it had been two full years without any.

Before falling into a coma from a boating accident, Ian had been a law student at a prestigious university. He was a meticulous gourmet, a strict vegan. Even under pressure and begging from his parents, he’d never abandoned his beliefs. But a long time had passed—and many things had happened—before that stubborn boy came to eat meat without flinching.

He’d adapted to the food. But he still couldn’t get used to the foreign body he now inhabited: a man’s body, unnaturally large, with a grotesquely oversized sex organ and a twisted sexual appetite.

Normally, Ian suppressed all desire with obsessive rigidity, minimizing his interactions with other alphas to avoid temptation. While others spent their rut cycles with Etas, Ian voluntarily locked himself in a cage to ride it out alone. But every time he regained consciousness, there was always a bloodied Eta lying next to him. It was his coworkers’ idea of a joke—mocking his attempts at celibacy.

Ian was the island’s least popular supervisor. The alphas obeyed his orders when passed down from above—but no one respected him. He was constantly overworked, carrying out every task delegated from the higher-ups. They valued his bland diligence.

He despised the alphas—but he also felt superior to them. Ian knew things they didn’t. They were not chosen. He was.

What they didn’t realize—not even in their dreams—was that every alpha was destined to die prematurely. But someone, one chosen person, would survive. And knowing that secret was what allowed Ian to maintain his cold composure, even amidst his loneliness and rage.

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