3547 had once again been drafted into the aliens’ rut experimentation today. He quietly extended his arm to the young, blue-eyed doctor, and a cold syringe pierced his skin.
“There’s... crystal meth dissolved in my blood. Take it out and put it back into me.”
“Crystal meth... you mean a drug?”
“Yeah! That’s right.”
“Drug re-injection is not permitted.”
“Then what are we doing right now?”
“Drawing blood.”
“Ah, it’s because of the rut levels, isn’t it?”
The doctor gazed into the small tube of blood filling the syringe, falling into thought. After a moment, he spoke with unconcealed concern on his face.
“Your test results came back normal. But if you’re exposed to the aliens’ frequencies for too long, eventually your rut levels will rise too.”
3547 liked the doctor’s kind voice. It even carried a trace of the same fear he himself had. The things 3547 feared were happening.
The transmission broadcast from the island to the rest of the globe didn’t just trigger physiological responses. It amplified humanity’s most primal instincts and uncontrollable desires—a lethal weapon that destroyed all civilized order.
No one believed 3547. But according to his calculations, the frequency would eventually push a third of the global population into a state of feral instinct.
He had seen it with his own two eyes. When he’d escaped the lab and fled north, dodging the black eye of the CCTV, he saw two men inside a gray concrete building—men who had thrown off civilization’s clothes and were tearing into each other’s bodies.
Carl Jung had said that archetypes buried in the unconscious could erupt explosively in times of crisis. The men’s rutting was itself a shadow of that primal instinct Jung spoke of—a man-made explosion, manipulated by alien heat-waves!
“It’s called the Rut Cycle.”
“Rut Cycle?”
“Symptoms of heat in large males.”
The large man had mounted the smaller one like an animal, grinding his hips wildly. The smaller man, bleeding freely from his anus, was still moaning in pleasure. Even the last shred of human reason had vanished. Sooner or later, 3547—and the entire human race—would lose their sense of self and fall into rut.
But no one else on the island believed him. Only the blue-eyed doctor listened earnestly and took his words seriously.
Was the doctor on humanity’s side? Maybe he was!
The blue-eyed doctor was also the only one who recognized the blurry outline of 3547’s illness—one that even 3547 only half-understood. He had once been normal. A Harvard graduate. A successful journalist on the rise.
Then came drugs. And one day, without warning, madness entered his world and warped everything. 3547 knew he was trapped in delusions. He didn’t deny his condition—but recognizing the disease didn’t ease the suffering. He always felt like someone who had seen a world he wasn’t meant to.
The blue-eyed doctor said to him:
“Take the medicine. It’ll give your brain some rest.”
3547 accepted the pills and swallowed them. The same antipsychotic medication he used to take in the past. After taking them, he fell into a deep, long sleep. He dreamed. In the dream, he fought a spaceship—and blew it up. When he awoke, he felt the impurities had been purged from his brain, and he began to trust the doctor.
“You did well. Thanks to you, I had the same dream.”
The next day, the blue-eyed doctor said:
“Let’s imprint that idea onto your freshly cleansed brain—that the spaceship must be destroyed. You can do that, right?”
“Do... do you think I can?”
“Of course.”
3547 nodded, smiling with childlike innocence. He and the doctor lived in the same world. Like him, the doctor was teetering dangerously on the boundary between reality and delusion.
3547 still didn’t know whether the blue-eyed doctor was truly on the side of humanity—or whether he was a malevolent being with some darker motive. But the doctor’s true nature didn’t matter. At the very least, he had resolved to destroy the spaceship, just like 3547 had.
They had to fight to protect the last defensive line of humanity. Even if everything he’d seen was a hallucination born of illness and psychosis, 3547 would still carry out his plan—to save this world, and himself.
“Cream inside 3543’s hole. And while you’re at it, shove your balls in too. Notting would be great. Watch his flat little belly swell up—what a sight that’d be. ...If you don’t like that, then jerk off in front of me right now.”
Ian Fitzner was a piece-of-shit degenerate. Every single one of his demands was revolting, harmful, and impossible to accept. The only reward he offered was one outdoor pass for Baekgyeong. And Yoon Siron, without a moment’s hesitation, told Baekgyeong which option to choose.
“You should’ve just said you’d jerk off.”
But there was no such option for Baekgyeong where “Yoon Siron casually suggests jerking off” made any sense. He never imagined Siron would so easily offer up his body like it was nothing.
“What’s so bad about selling your body a little? It’s not like it wears out.”
Baekgyeong was stunned silent by the scorn and pity in Siron’s eyes. After a long pause, he asked:
“Yoon Siron. Are you serious?”
“I’m serious.”
Siron answered with absolute sincerity.
“Compared to putting on a hardcore sex show where he shoves his balls into my hole? I think you jerking off in front of that pervert is a much cleaner and simpler solution.”
“You’d be okay with me jerking off in front of another man?”
“Yup.”
Siron replied without a trace of hesitation.
“He’s offering you a pass. Go out and have a cute little date while you’re at it. Wander around the island. Don’t forget to figure out where the boat’s moored.”
Baekgyeong, suddenly parched, grabbed a 500ml water bottle and chugged it in one go without pausing. Siron didn’t look away for even a moment. His gaze held an inexplicable tension.
Baekgyeong wiped the water running down his chin with the back of his hand and glared at Siron with a sour expression. But Siron ignored it and said:
“The short guy. The way he looks at you—it’s not normal. I think he wants to fuck you.”
“Fuck me? Me? ...Wait, you mean he wants to put it in me?”
“Yeah. I mean, any sane guy wouldn’t want to get fucked by you.”
“...Why not?”
“Who the hell could take that cobra of yours and still walk afterward?”
Siron’s eyes went blurry and unfocused as he stared at Baekgyeong’s crotch.
“If he does the fucking, maybe. But no one wants to get fucked by you.”
At Siron’s words, Baekgyeong finally began to take the alpha who introduced himself as Ian Fitzner more seriously. Every time he brought food, the guy lingered too long—his gaze reeked of secret greed.
Baekgyeong had tolerated Ian’s disgusting stares in silence so far only because he was the one person here who didn’t treat him with outright hostility.
“You’re not jealous?”
Baekgyeong twisted his face in wounded pride. Siron answered indifferently.
“I don’t get jealous. That’s a gross emotion.”
“Why is it gross? I live 365 days a year losing my ✧ NоvеIight ✧ (Original source) mind with jealousy.”
Siron’s gaze, fixed on Baekgyeong, grew colder and colder—like ice. A bitter smirk tugged at his lips. Typical. It was the face of someone who’d completely given up hope—disappointed beyond repair.
In the past, Baekgyeong used to explode with fury when Siron looked at him that way. But that wasn’t who he was anymore. Now, before he reacted emotionally, he paused to think—and what rose wasn’t rage, but fear. Fear that disappointed Siron might leave him.
“Wait, did I say something like ‘don’t be pathetically jealous’ before?”
At Baekgyeong’s tentative question, Siron narrowed his eyes and glared at him.
“I don’t know. I don’t remember.”
“Fuck... I did, didn’t I.”
When the fury reached his head, he used to babble like a man possessed. After the madness passed, his mind would go blank, and he’d remember nothing. All that remained were the ruins—destruction he’d caused with his own hands.
“I don’t want to talk about the past with you. So shut up.”
Siron quickly put up a wall. He didn’t want to discuss anything about their past.
But a moment later, he wondered if he’d gone too far. He glanced sideways to gauge Baekgyeong’s reaction. That bastard was the type to get upset over nothing. Thankfully, there was nothing nearby to break—or anyone else for him to take it out on.
Take it out on...?
Suddenly, Siron’s thoughts turned to his face—recovering day by day, regaining its beauty.
“Pissed off? Huh? If you’re pissed, then just hit me once.”
Grabbing Baekgyeong’s fist without warning, Siron shoved his face forward.
“Give me a black eye or something. Just not hard enough to break my nose, okay?”
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