L*st and Death

The dining hall was barely a hundred meters from the research building. Between the two lay a smooth path paved with luxurious light-gray basalt stones. At first, Siron thought it was absurd to lay such fancy paving stones just to walk a hundred meters—but then he realized it was for the food carts used to transport meals.

Baekgyeong must be trapped inside the research building.

That thought crossed Siron’s mind as he walked, conscious of Short One behind him. Short One was pushing a cart filled with meals—Baekgyeong’s Korean lunch set, along with food for others in the research wing. Judging by the modest quantity, there didn’t seem to be many people stationed in the facility, despite its size.

Glancing back at the cart, Siron locked eyes with Beardface just a few meters behind.

“What’re you peeking at me for? You trying to turn me on?”

Siron couldn’t hide his expression in time and glared openly. This motherfucker couldn’t say a single sentence without claiming he was “turned on.” Siron wanted to kill him. And the bastard had still eaten half the egg roll, even after calling it bland. Thanks to that, any chance of Baekgyeong guessing Siron’s identity through the whale design was gone.

“Y-you... Why did you lie to me? You said it was a happy drug. But I didn’t get anything. They just did weird experiments on me...”

Right then, 3547 leaned in, his foul-smelling lips close to Siron’s ear, whispering nervously. Siron had no desire to engage with a junkie, so he ignored him. But 3547 wouldn’t give up.

“You’re one of them too, aren’t you? They’re controlling your brainwaves through satellites, right?”

He pointed at the domed antenna attached to a steel tower, reaching toward the sky. Brainwaves controlled by satellites? Siron felt exhaustion crash down on him.

“Fuck this. Fuck my life.”

He buried his face in his hands and muttered a curse.

“See? That was alien-speak, wasn’t it? I knew it. This place is crawling with aliens.”

He wanted to ignore the man completely, but leaving a conspiracy nut unchecked would probably get him beaten to death by the alphas. Siron had no choice but to respond.

“That was Korean. I’m Korean, so I’m speaking Korean.”

“R-really? Still sounds fishy...”

“Look, I’m stuck here just like you. How could I be on their side? I’m not one of them.”

“Then why’d you lie to me?”

“Because I didn’t want to get beat up like I did. If you didn’t cooperate, they would’ve fucked you up like they did me.”

3547 looked nervously at Siron’s swollen, bruised face. The injuries had actually come from the fight with Joseph Miller before Siron was abducted to the island, but what did it matter?

“Actually... now that I’m looking at you... you’re kinda pretty.”

“Pretty? You’re prettier, I—wait, what?”

Siron had reflexively begun to reply with a smile, out of pure habit—but his expression froze. Were the swelling and bruises on his face already fading, revealing his sharp features underneath?

Panicked, he rushed into the building and got into the elevator, checking his reflection in the stainless steel mirror. Thankfully, his face was still swollen and battered. His beauty was completely hidden—no one would guess there was a rare kind of handsomeness underneath. But if the wounds fully healed, his looks would become the stuff of legend on this island.

“Out. Both of you. We’re taking the stairs.”

Beardface aimed his rifle at Siron and 3547 as they stepped into the elevator, gesturing for them to get out. Short One, who had entered last, looked aghast.

“Are you serious?”

Beardface shrugged like he was cracking a joke.

“Don’t whine. You’d be late anyway from carrying food.”

“Sing said not to mess with the test subjects. He warned us about variables.”

“I’m not using pheromones—just my mouth! We’ll be back in twenty minutes.”

Short One glared at him, his expression twisted, but he didn’t actually try to stop him.

“What’re you waiting for? Get out.”

Siron, silently screaming for Short One to intervene, had no choice but to obey Beardface’s threat and stepped out of the elevator with 3547.

“Wiggle those asses all the way up to the fifth floor, yeah? Whichever one of you shakes it best gets a treat—like, let’s say... some sweet milk. So work that ass, ha ha!”

Whatever kind of degenerate school he’d graduated from, every word out of Beardface’s mouth was designed to make people feel filthy. Siron ignored him completely and checked the elevator display. It had already reached Basement Level 2.

There was no shortage of land on the island—so if they’d gone through the trouble of expanding the building underground, it meant some facilities had to be built down there.

Was it to make escape harder?

As they climbed the stairs, Siron checked that the elevator hadn’t moved from B2. That confirmed it—Baekgyeong was underground. His plan to signal Baekgyeong through the egg roll drawing had failed. Now, he only had one thing left to rely on.

He desperately hoped Baekgyeong had received the message.

“C’mon, wiggle it! Let’s go!”

Beardface crouched on the landing like a coach cheering for his team, clapping with enthusiasm. Siron trembled with rage and stood frozen, teeth clenched—until suddenly, the image of a caramel-colored old man flashed in his mind.

“Stop right there, you fucker!”

Siron hadn’t expected the cranky old bastard to actually help him—but on instinct, he bolted toward the lab. He barely made it to the fifth floor, but Beardface was faster. Before he could reach the lab doors, Beardface grabbed him and dragged him into an unfamiliar room.

“Fuck you, you piece of shit! Let go of me!”

“Shut it!”

It was a storage room, gloomy and suffocating. Packed with supplies, it barely let in any light through the grimy windows. Beardface shoved Siron to the floor and climbed on top of him. The overwhelming weight, the hot, humid breath, the hands groping his body—it all made his mind go blank. And then there were the pheromones. Those disgusting pheromones. Barely noticeable, but crawling across his skin like sandpaper, gradually heightening his sensitivity.

Siron swung anything he could reach at Beardface’s head, but the strength difference was too much. Even as Siron’s fists pounded him, Beardface pulled down his pants and revealed a grotesquely swollen, blood-flushed cock.

“AAAH! Get off! Fuck off! Mmph! Mmmph!”

A massive palm crushed Siron’s mouth—and his nose too. In the dim light, Siron could see the bulging veins on that vile cock as it crept closer. Beardface whispered hoarsely:

“Don’t even think about biting. I’ll rip out all your teeth and shove them up your hole, got it? Nod if you understand.”

He exhaled in raspy grunts, waiting for Siron to respond. But Siron kept resisting.

“Tch. I didn’t expect you to take it quietly. Honestly? That’s even better. Gets me harder.”

Beardface pinned Siron’s face with his shovel-sized hand, savoring the fear in his eyes.

Then—click.

A cold, distinct sound split the darkness.

“Would you kindly move aside.”

Everything froze. Beardface halted mid-thrust. Siron stopped struggling beneath him. The sound had come from a rifle’s slide.

Beardface turned with a snarl.

A man was pointing a gun at him.

It was his own gun.

“You’re in my way.”

“W-wait! Calm down! Put the gun down!”

“Leaving a weapon unattended in violation of regulations? Hm. Are you saying you want a firsthand lesson in why we follow safety protocols?”

“You fucking bastard, you think—AGH!”

With no warning, the shot rang out, and a window in the storage room shattered. Beardface screamed and clutched his ear.

“My ear! My fucking ear!”

Sobbing in shock, Beardface scrambled for anything he could throw, grabbing objects off the shelves and hurling them wildly. As he picked up a heavy piece of metal and prepared to launch it, another shot cracked through the room. Beardface screamed again and clutched his other ear.

“AAAGH! AAAAARGH!”

“If you keep resisting, I’ll blow off that ugly thing next.”

The rifle muzzle shifted toward Beardface’s groin. But he was already in a full-blown panic. Still covering both ears, he collapsed onto the floor, weeping.

As Beardface writhed on the ground, reeling from the loss of hearing in both ears, the man kept his gun trained on him and addressed Siron.

“3543. Please stand up and hand me the photodirector from the shelf.”

3543. The number assigned to Siron since he arrived on this cursed island.

He was stunned. Shocked to the point that the attempted rape moments ago was nearly wiped from his mind.

Still frozen, Siron didn’t respond. The man said calmly:

“Well, if I were you, I’d pretend not to know what a photodirector was either. That’s the only way to stay alive.”

Then he met Siron’s eyes and asked:

“If you understand me, nod.”

“You! You son of a—!”

Siron shot to his feet, trembling with rage, and pointed violently at Isaac Bazelli.

But then, as if shackled mid-run, Siron’s bulldozing charge toward Isaac stopped cold.

In that heavy silence, something clicked. Not perfectly—but enough. The photodirector, whatever it was, was a code. A stand-in for Isaac Bazelli himself.

Isaac didn’t want Siron to acknowledge him. If Siron broke that rule, the rifle’s barrel would point not at Beardface—but at him.

Grinding his teeth, Siron growled:

“What the hell is a photodirector?”

Isaac leaned slightly forward, resting an elbow on the arm of his wheelchair. The dim light caught his figure just enough to reveal his outline—shadowed, unreadable. His eyes locked with Siron’s, enigmatic.

“It’s the 10-centimeter black box on the third shelf to the left.”

Siron stared between Isaac and the shelf, then reached out hesitantly. When his hand hovered in the wrong area, Isaac flicked a switch on the wall.

A fluorescent light flickered on, flooding the storage room in sterile white.

“Can you see it now?”

Isaac’s ice-blue eyes were disturbingly full of anticipation. Like an eager audience member waiting for Act Two of a long-awaited play to begin.

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