L*st and Death

Siron gazed out through the research lab corridor window at the island landscape. The breeze slipping through the window carried a damp humidity and strong scent of salt. That morning, the skies had been clear and blinding, but by afternoon the sun only peeked occasionally through the clouds—gray weather had taken over.

Maybe it was the hurricane’s influence—stronger winds were blowing than the day before. The distant sea had transformed into massive waves under the force of the wind, and the gusts along the coastline were howling upward along the island’s ski-jump-like slope.

Is that enough?

Leaning his cheek against the window frame, Siron could see the metal towers along the island’s edge and a group of alphas. They were reinforcing the massive dome-shaped antenna, presumably to keep it from being torn off by the hurricane.

“They say there was a mess this morning because of the hawser, right?”

As Siron idly waited his turn for a blood test, staring out the window, an interesting word caught his ear.

“I’ve heard before that hawser accidents can be dangerous, but I didn’t expect this. Look at this—barely grazed me, and I’ve got this nasty bruise.”

Siron snuck a sideways glance toward the alphas standing about five meters away. They were the ones who had escorted him from the cafeteria to the lab—one had a gormless face with gapped front teeth, the other had an upturned nose with mismatched nostrils.

When the one with the uneven nostrils rolled up his sleeve, a tattoo-covered forearm was revealed—his entire hand was red and swollen, clearly bruised from being struck hard by something.

“Jesus. Shouldn’t you take the day off looking like that?”

“Bullshit. You think there’s time for a break? They say the hurricane’s about to hit.”

“Yeah, I’ve been stuck doing repair work all afternoon too.”

The two of them seemed to have spent the entire day preparing for the hurricane. That meant the island was within the projected path of a hurricane making landfall in Hellsota on the 10th. The island was clearly closer to the US than he’d initially assumed.

“You’re the only one who got hurt?”

“Spike got a burn on his palm. If you don’t want to die again, you better watch out for hawser accidents too.”

As Siron listened closely to the two alphas’ conversation, a sense of déjà vu crept in.

Hawser accident? Where have I heard that before...?

What even is a hawser?

As he struggled to recall where he’d heard the term, the glass door opened, and a familiar face appeared.

It was 3547.

He’s alive.

Two days ago—on the day Siron had nearly been raped by Beardface—3547 had vanished without a trace. Judging by his swollen face, unrecognizable and battered, he must’ve been severely beaten by the alphas during his arrest.

He looked like he needed at least ten days of bed rest, and yet they were making him line up for a blood draw. Disgusting bastards. Siron’s heart sank as if he’d been the one beaten.

Inside the blood draw room, where 3547 had just gone in, it wasn’t Singh who awaited him—it was Isaac. Sitting across the table from Isaac, Siron felt a subtle sense of unfamiliarity. As they stared at each other, silently gauging, the quiet between them grew heavy. Puzzled by the strange tension, Siron crossed his arms. Just then, Isaac spoke first.

“Did you sleep well last night?”

Sleep well? They weren’t exactly on friendly terms—and it wasn’t even morning anymore. The question was absurd. Siron replied sarcastically.

“Yeah. Slept great.”

“That’s good to hear. I was worried—the floor of the dorm is said to be cold enough to freeze your bones.”

“It wasn’t cold. Bit hot, actually.”

Siron responded thoughtlessly, but the memory of the night before suddenly came rushing back, and he felt like he was burning inside. Shrugging, he tried to cover his fluster.

“I run hot, you know.”

And then Siron realized what had felt so strange about Isaac.

He had shaved. His once-scruffy beard was gone, leaving his features so clean they almost looked exposed. He looked refreshed, as if even his fatigue and age had been washed away—he even seemed a few years younger than usual.

There was no doubt. Isaac had shaved because of him.

He shaved? ...Is this some kind of sexual appeal?

In reality, he’d just been issued shaving supplies and used them, but Siron’s biased mind skipped right over logic—only seeing what it wanted to see, hearing what it wanted to hear. Feeling oddly relaxed, Siron let out a quiet scoff and asked the question that had been on his mind.

“Can I ask you something?”

Siron looked at him intently, then said in a deliberately provocative tone:

“What’s a hawser?”

“A hawser?”

“Yes. I’m very curious.”

Isaac, who had been writing something down, glanced at Siron with curiosity, then put down his pen and replied:

“A hawser is a line used to tie a docked ship to shore so it doesn’t drift out to sea.”

A line that keeps a ship from drifting... In other words, there was a docked ship somewhere on the island.

Isaac was still staring straight at him—his look asked why such a random question had suddenly come up. But Siron had no intention of revealing that he’d figured out there was a ship on the island.

If Isaac already knew, then fine. But if he didn’t, then Siron would keep it to himself. He hadn’t yet decided whether Isaac would be part of his escape plan.

Casually placing his arm on the blood draw cushion, Siron lied without blinking.

“So it’s a real term. I thought they were making it up.”

“Making it up?”

“We were bored, so we played a word game in the cell.”

“Hm... a word game?”

Isaac didn’t seem convinced. Frowning slightly, he expertly tied a yellow tourniquet around Siron’s upper arm.

“The hawser work is being rushed because of the hurricane that’s about to hit the island. The forecast changed. They say a hurricane from West Africa is merging with another one formed in the Caribbean. The volatility of the weather’s increased, so we’re preparing for the worst.”

Isaac confirmed that hawser work was underway. Disappointing, but it meant Isaac already knew there was a ship docked here. Siron, resigned to it, decided he might as well ask another thing that had been bugging him.

“What’s a hawser accident?”

“When you tie a ship down with rope, the rope is held under high tension. If it snaps, it’s like a stretched rubber band breaking—it can cause serious injury to anyone nearby. So someone on the island must’ve gotten caught in one. Probably one of those two alphas gossiping in the hallway, the one with the nasty bruises.”

Siron was internally reeling—How the hell did he figure that out?—but he kept his expression neutral and prodded gently.

“But I didn’t see any ship. No hawser or anything. There’s nothing at the dock.”

“The southern dock is too accessible and visible, so emergency vessels aren’t moored there. It’s too close to the detainee dorms. A prisoner could hijack one and escape.”

“Then where is it moored?”

Isaac pretended not to hear and focused on the blood draw. As he completed the fake procedure, he gently placed a syringe on Siron’s arm. The needle never touched a vein, no blood was drawn, but beneath his large hand, the empty syringe was discreetly swapped out for one already full of someone else’s blood.

After finishing the whole act, Isaac smiled with a hint of irony.

“I’ve never heard of any ship being moored on the island.”

“...What?”

“I mean, thanks to you, I know now.”

Siron didn’t understand what he meant at first. But a moment later, it hit him—he’d fallen for Isaac’s trick. Isaac hadn’t known about the ship. Not until Siron asked about the hawser.

Isaac watched Siron’s face go red, then pale, then red again, and smirked slyly.

“You don’t plan on sharing information with me? Hah... what a painfully boring choice.”

Isaac tilted his head as he looked at him, his face twisting into a sneer. Siron, startled by Isaac’s raw, indecorous tone, let out an awkward laugh. But he immediately regretted trying to smooth over the mood with a smile. He snapped back with a biting tone:

“I’m just being careful.”

“So your version of careful means inviting danger.”

“You’re just as dangerous as the other alphas here, if not more.”

“I can’t even move my lower body. What kind of threat am I supposed to be?”

Siron no longer wanted to pursue the conversation. But Isaac didn’t seem ready to let it end.

“Your face has healed a lot. You’ll be back to your original self soon. Back to the version of you that used to say, ‘I’ve always been loved for how I look.’”

“I have always been loved for how I look. No matter how much you want or obsess over me, your attention is as worthless to me as a pebble on the ground.”

Siron fully understood what Isaac meant. He remembered exactly when he’d said those arrogant words.

Because immediately after saying them—after declaring Isaac’s attention worthless like a pebble—Siron had been the one to kiss him first.

But he had no intention of revisiting that charged, sexual moment. Isaac’s words had only opened a new door of anxiety inside him.

“Fuck. My face.”

Siron rubbed his skin, soft as glutinous rice cake and smooth like butter. The swelling had mostly gone down, and the bruises had faded. It didn’t even hurt unless he pressed hard. At this rate, he’d end up enchanting everyone on this island.

“Is there a drug that can make my face ugly?”

He clasped his hands together in desperation and pleaded. The question shattered the tension between them in an instant, leaving behind an awkward silence.

“I know these bastards don’t rape people for their looks, but still... going back to my old face—right now, it scares me a lot.”

He leaned forward, his face close to Isaac’s. Siron’s beauty was returning, bit by bit. And unfortunately, some people found twisted fascination in the wounds hidden beneath that beauty.

Visit and read more novel to help us update chapter quickly. Thank you so much!