L*st and Death

While Siron struggled to cobble together a bastardized kimchi stew and an egg roll, Sonya had already filled five full meal containers in what felt like the blink of an eye. Fried burritos soaked in sauce—chimichangas—quesadillas, mashed potatoes, and buffalo wings.

Whether it was self-serve or not, Sonya began carrying the food and drinks to the long table in the center of the dining hall once she finished cooking. The containers were packed full, and they had to be heavy, but she refused Siron's offer to help and silently carried everything by herself.

She’s going to drop that food at this rate.

Unable to watch anymore, Siron quickly moved in while she was busy transferring the buffalo wings and carried the remaining containers himself.

Even though he had taken some of the burden off her shoulders, Sonya didn’t show a hint of gratitude. She simply sat down and took off the sweat-soaked headscarf from her hair. Her eyes were void of any light, as if there was nothing fulfilling or enjoyable about the labor she’d just completed—just more drudgery.

She stared blankly at the TV screen mounted on the wall. It was tuned to CNM, a news channel.

[The state of Helsota and its Department of Transportation have joined forces to launch the “RE:Find” campaign to locate missing persons. Led by Lieutenant Governor Eric Sinclair, information about missing individuals will be continuously posted at major transportation hubs for a full year. Sinclair hopes the campaign will raise public awareness and encourage more citizens to participate in the search efforts.]

A strange feeling came over Siron. Just last week, he had delivered desserts to the RE:Find campaign camp and was overjoyed to receive a huge tip. He had stared at the faces on the missing person posters given to him by volunteers, hoping that one day, he could help someone get home safely to their family.

But in just a week, he had become one of them—disappeared from the world without a trace. The realization that he might now be a face on one of those posters sent a chill through his body. He imagined someone in Korea posting about his disappearance on social media, followed by a media frenzy spinning his case into sensational headlines.

“Top Star Turned Homeless: The Tragic Fall of Yoon Siron!”

“Disappearance of Yoon Siron—Scandal-Plagued Actor Vanishes Without a Trace!”

Dozens of clickbait titles flashed through his mind. And even though he knew it was a privileged thing to think, part of him hoped the world never found out he was missing.

Sinking into a heavier mood, Siron returned to the kitchen. The rice, which had been left to steam on low heat, was finally done, and a rich, savory aroma wafted through the air. There hadn’t been any specific instruction about when to serve the meal, so Siron had prepared everything to be ready by noon.

On a tray, he placed sticky-less white rice alongside his slow-simmered “kimchi stew”—or rather, sauerkraut stew. He laid three bay leaves on top like a garnish and, with a nervous heart, tasted the food.

“...Where did it all go wrong? Was it the jalapeño pickles?”

It wasn’t terrible, but it was the kind of taste you didn’t want another bite of after the first spoonful.

“Ha... Baekgyeong’s gonna throw a fucking fit.”

He just hoped Baekgyeong wouldn’t lose his temper and chuck the food the moment he took a bite.

“Right. The food doesn’t matter. It’s fine.”

What mattered was the message he was trying to send. Thankfully, the egg roll had turned out well. Siron had drawn a whale in ketchup across the thick, fluffy roll—a sperm whale, Baekgyeong’s symbol—flattened slightly at the head like a cartoon.

“There’s no way he won’t pick up on this, right?”

Still, if he made the drawing too detailed, it might raise suspicions.

“He might be dumb, but he’s sharp when it comes to stuff like this. He’ll get it.”

The digital clock on the kitchen wall beeped. It was already half past noon. Sonya, who had been sitting silently in the dining hall, jumped up at the alarm. She passed through the kitchen and headed toward the storage room. Just as she was about to shut the door, she paused, then waved to Siron, who was standing dumbly inside the kitchen.

“Come in.”

“The... storage room?”

Sonya didn’t answer but gestured impatiently. As soon as Siron stepped inside, she shut the door firmly behind him, then slid a long, thick metal bar into the dozen or so latch holes that ran along the frame.

“There’s... a lot of latches.”

Ignoring him, Sonya untied her sauce-stained apron and tossed it into a laundry basket.

“Lunch break starts at 12:30 for those men?”

She didn’t answer.

“When do they finish eating?”

Siron stepped a little closer and faced her directly.

“Do we have to stay here until they’re done?”

Pressed by his insistent questioning, Sonya finally muttered a reply.

“Call them alphas.”

Siron repeated the word back at her, keeping his face blank. Something told him it was important to play dumb.

“Alphas? What does that mean?”

She didn’t answer. As if she had reached her daily quota for conversation, she pressed her lips tightly shut and went into the dry pantry, starting preparations for dinner without pause.

Soon, the muffled sound of rowdy voices echoed beyond the storage room door. The alphas were crowding into the dining hall to enjoy their buffet.

Sonya had carved out a den in this freezing, sweltering pantry—something like an animal’s lair—but even here, she couldn’t rest. Siron tried not to imagine what she had been through. But the anger surged in waves anyway.

There was still no hope of escape from the island. But if he ever got the chance, Siron wanted to become the beginning of a happy ending. A story that started with, “At the darkest time of her life, Yoon Siron appeared.”

“Sonya.”

She flinched at the light tap on her shoulder and turned around. Siron had approached without her noticing, his swollen face lit by a bright smile.

“Did I mention I worked ten years under a curry master? Want to try my unbeatable curry sometime?”

Sonya didn’t respond. She filled a basket with onions, set it down near the entrance, and walked into the refrigerator. Siron quickly followed her in.

“There’s curry powder in the pantry, but it’s not enough. Do you have turmeric, coriander, or cumin powder?”

He pulled down a paper box from the top shelf she couldn’t reach and carried it out. Then he stuck to her like glue, firing off more questions.

“If not, just coriander powder would do. Do we have any?”

“Can I use the frozen chicken? I was thinking of making curry for lunch tomorrow.”

“Is it okay if I use the tandoor?”

“What do the people in the holding facility eat today? Is it frozen burritos again?”

Sonya, who had been ignoring him all this time, finally relented under the barrage.

“It’s just burritos.”

“No wonder. Burritos three days in a row. Mind if I pull some out ahead of time to thaw for later?”

She nodded silently. Siron took that as permission and went into the freezer, hauling out a box of burritos.

“That’s not enough. Bring another box.”

Each box held thirty burritos. Up until now, Siron had seen only thirteen other kidnapped homeless men besides himself, which made this confusing. Then it hit him.

“There are... more people who’ve been kidnapped?”

Sonya nodded faintly.

“How many?”

Staring pensively at the box of burritos, she answered.

“Sixty. Around there.”

Only fourteen of them—including Siron—had been held in the facility he was sent to. Which meant that nearly fifty others had been abducted to this cursed island. Joan Welch, the missing homeless man from Baggers City, might be among them. But Siron no longer felt any curiosity about Joan’s whereabouts. He had become one of them.

But the holding facility isn’t that big—can they even fit fifty more people?

There were two nearly identical buildings on the southern part of the island. One of them held the fourteen people abducted alongside Siron. Up until now, he had assumed the other one held a similar number. Sure, it was possible to cram fifty people into a cramped, filthy space—but would they really do that? More likely, they were scattered across the island, stored like tools based on utility.

Based on utility.

That phrase chilled Siron to the bone. It felt like everyone kidnapped to this island was being classified by function—for use by the alphas.

But his thoughts didn’t get to go any further. A knock came from outside. Sonya tensed, and Siron instinctively stood at her side.

“Is 3543 in there?”

A familiar voice called for him. It was Short One.

“Yes. I’m here.”

Siron glanced at Sonya’s expression, then cautiously unlatched the door. About a dozen alphas were still eating in the dining hall. Just outside the door stood Short One and Beardface—3547—scratching his cheek nervously.

“What are you doing? Get out here.”

As the memory of Beardface groping his ass that morning came rushing back, Siron’s breath caught in his throat. If he could just spin-kick that fucker in the face...

“This the Korean food I asked for?”

Short One walked over to the counter and looked down at the meal Siron had prepared.

“Yes, that’s right.”

“Doesn’t look very special.”

“Yeah. Hm. Is it even edible?”

Before Beardface could stop him, Short One picked up a thick slice of the egg roll and popped it into his mouth—right at the part where the ketchup-drawn whale’s head began.

“Mm, just your average egg dish. I guess the ketchup’s doing all the work here?”

Beardface picked up another piece and shoved it into his mouth. Siron barely managed to keep his face from twisting in horror. But the glare he gave Beardface was impossible to hide.

As Beardface reached for a third piece, he noticed Siron’s tearful, burning eyes and let out a smirking chuckle.

“What’re you staring at? You turning me on?”

Still laughing, Beardface jerked his chin toward the exit.

“To the lab. Let’s go.”

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