L*st and Death

“Curry?”

It was the curry they’d ordered last week from a restaurant in Riverland. The tied-up trash bag had been ripped open, and an empty curry container had rolled out onto the floor.

She remembered the rancid curry smell that had made her stomach turn just moments ago. It had come from near the first-floor entrance.

As if he had stumbled along the wall, Lewis had left faint handprints smeared in curry along the ivory-colored wall. If he had just been hungry, he could’ve opened the fridge and eaten something from inside. But instead, he’d dug through the trash to retrieve rotting curry and eat that.

Scowling at the curry-stained wall, Anna suddenly saw a hallucination: a man taking off a motorcycle helmet, smiling brightly. He was grinning at her and asking her to confirm all the extra side dishes he’d brought to make up for a botched delivery.

“...Curry King?”

That ridiculous, unforgettable name flickered across her mind.

“Don’t tell me... he went there for curry?”

She was momentarily seized by the ridiculous possibility—then let out a hollow laugh. No way. No matter how much of an alpha in rut he was, no way he’d cross the river to reach some random curry restaurant.

“Get it together. This isn’t the time.”

Even now, Lewis, a ticking time bomb of a man, was probably wandering through the rainy streets. She grabbed the tranquilizer gun and headed out into the night. If anyone had to bring down the wild beast she herself had turned into an alpha—it had to be Anna.

---

10:00 p.m., well past nightfall. The taxi had barely stopped in front of Curry King, rain still pouring down, when Siron rushed straight into the bathroom. He’d been fine when he left home, but just five minutes into the ride, an overwhelming urge to pee had come over him.

Clutching his bladder, about to burst, he flung open the restroom door. The air inside reeked of urine. He yanked down his pants and underwear and pulled out his cock. Judging by the pressure, he expected a massive release—but instead of a satisfying arc, only a pitiful drizzle came out. Dribble, dribble.

“God, my stomach...”

Frequent urination, weakened stream, an unsettling pain near his prostate and deeper. It had to be a side effect from the clinical trial.

“Or maybe... it’s a healing response?”

Like those "healing crises" people talked about—when symptoms temporarily worsen as chronic illness improves.

“You see patients this late? I thought you only accepted appointments.”

“Sometimes. So if you experience side effects, even in the middle of the night, call me.”

“What if it’s... prostate enlargement? Can I even call him?”

Rubbing his lower belly, Siron tried to recall the trial participant guide they’d given him. It had listed symptoms like abdominal bloating, sense of incomplete urination, testicular shrinkage, sperm production issues, gynecomastia, and hair loss.

“My chest isn’t bigger... I don’t think my balls have shrunk... and I’m not balding... The residual pee feeling? That’s been there since before. I guess I’m fine.”

Siron fiddled with his flat chest for a second, then quickly decided it was all within expected limits. He exited the bathroom.

Curry King was dimly lit, nearly all lights off, and looked like a battlefield. According to Ashimi, by 7 p.m. they’d run out of ingredients from the sheer number of customers.

Thankfully, there were no suspicious people lingering outside now—but this was still Riverland. Siron carefully locked both entrance doors, then began cleaning the dining hall.

It had rained all day, and yet people had lined up in the storm to come here. If they were all people who knew the name Yoon Siron, then their motivations had to be one of three things: fanatic love, rabid hate, or the scavenging obsession of a reporter. Whatever the reason, Siron had no desire to be part of it.

Ikbal, the owner, had kindly assigned him three nights of closing shifts before returning to the regular schedule—but Siron had made up his mind. He couldn’t keep working here. The reason was the same as why he paid high rent for an apartment that didn’t require co-signers.

Now that his workplace was exposed, it was only a matter of time before Baek Kyung showed up. And if Baek Kyung came barking like a dog outside his door, Siron knew he’d eventually open it, just to shut him up—only to let that bastard dog back into his life.

Until he successfully rebuilt his career and lived behind walls high enough to keep dogs out, he could not face that bastard again. When the time came, Baek Kyung could bark outside the wall all he wanted. Siron wouldn’t care.

Just as he was finishing up in the dining area and preparing to tackle the mountain of dirty dishes, he felt a strange, metallic rattling sound—something clattering violently.

He turned off the faucet and held his breath to listen. Silence.

“...Was I imagining it?”

But the moment he resumed washing, the sound came again—clearer this time. The heavy iron gate outside the store was being shaken. Hard.

Panic flooding in, Siron grabbed the cast iron frying pan from the sink and crept out of the kitchen to peek toward the entrance.

Under the faint streetlight, a massive dark silhouette stood outside the restaurant, peering in. A pair of gleaming eyes scanned the interior, and when they locked onto Siron’s, a bolt of lightning flashed.

“Ah—!”

Startled out of his wits, Siron stumbled back and fell to the floor. He realized too late he’d dropped the frying pan.

Outside the door, the man began violently shaking the iron gate again. Terrified, Siron crawled beneath the nearest table to retrieve the pan. He gripped the handle with both hands—but deep down, he knew this man, built like a literal door, couldn’t be stopped with just a frying pan.

He should’ve grabbed a kitchen knife.

Trying to stand, Siron found his limbs weak and uncooperative, collapsing like a ragdoll. Just as he managed to get up—

CRASH! The lock gave way, and the iron gate tore off its hinges. One solid kick shattered the glass door behind it.

The police. He should’ve called them instead of standing here like an idiot gripping a damn frying pan like it was a legendary weapon.

But it was too late. His phone was at the counter—and the man was already right in front of him.

The man snatched the frying pan from Siron’s hands like it was nothing and flung it over his shoulder. The difference in strength was absurd. Siron tried to run but only got a few steps before the man grabbed his collar and slammed him into the wall.

Pinned between the cold wall and the man’s body—hard as iron—Siron could barely breathe. The man, easily a full head taller, maybe more, pressed against him, burying his nose in Siron’s scent like an animal in heat.

He ran his rain-soaked palm all over Siron’s face, then shoved fingers into his open mouth, rubbing his tongue. Siron gagged, choked, coughed as the man’s thick fingers pressed down his tongue, scraped his palate, jabbed into his throat.

“...Ah. Good.”

The sticky whisper against his ear sent a sharp ache through Siron’s belly. The man’s breath, soaked in hunger and reverence, poured over his scalp like fire. That fire spread from his head to his toes, heating him up against his will.

There was something intoxicating in the man’s scent. His heartbeat pounded in his ears like war drums. He realized—what he felt wasn’t just fear. Somewhere, slipping through the cracks, was a faint ripple of... arousal.

“Ah—!”

The man rubbed his cock against Siron’s lower back. It was massive, firm—like a loaded weapon pressing into him. Siron trembled, as if a gun barrel had been shoved against his spine. He understood now exactly what the man intended.

Fuck. No way was he going to lie there crying like a lamb as he got raped.

Siron reached behind him, groping, grabbed the thick erection like it was a club, and squeezed as hard as he could—intent on crushing it.

“Ahh, yes. Harder. Hurt me more.”

“...What the fuck?!”

Startled, Siron let go—only for the man to seize him and twist him around, crushing their mouths together. A hot, thick tongue invaded through his parted lips, and Siron shuddered like he’d been electrocuted.

“Mmph—hkk!”

The man took Siron’s hand, forced it onto his own cock, and made him stroke it through his soaked pants. Siron’s stiff hand moved against the hard bulge, and a strange scent—raw, musky—rose off the man’s body like acid mist.

“Ugh—ghk.”

The man used Siron’s hand to tug his pants down. His cock, heavy and erect, landed in Siron’s palm. It was slick with dried and fresh semen, sticky and hot. The disgusting texture made Siron recoil °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° in revulsion.

Bent low, their lips still joined, the man tried to press even closer. He pushed and loomed, trying to force Siron to accept the full weight of his pent-up lust. Siron, gagging, shut his eyes tight and bit down—hard—on the man’s rubbery tongue.

“Gh—!”

The kiss finally broke, but the man buried his face in Siron’s hair, panting—and pressed their hips even closer.

“Don’t—! Nngh, you fucking bastard—stop!”

Siron’s desperate cries vanished into the downpour outside. Kicking, twisting, stomping on the man’s feet—none of it worked. The man didn’t budge, a boulder crushing him in place.

The man began to tremble—and then hot, sticky semen spilled across Siron’s palm again. It was like having a bucket of warm vomit dumped over him. Siron gagged.

But it wasn’t over.

The man grabbed his shoulders and flung him from the wall to the floor.

Crash. Siron landed face-first, momentarily losing consciousness from the pain. His pants were ripped off, his limp legs spread wide in a humiliating sprawl.

The man straddled him, rubbing his stiff cock against Siron’s groin, groping with the head—searching for the entrance.

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