L*st and Death

Outside the window, everything was swallowed by pitch-black darkness. The only sound that reached the ears was the relentless roar of wind and rain. Inside the mess hall, however, it was another world entirely—quiet, clean, and at peace.

Sonia stood in the kitchen, drying wet dishes with a cloth, while Siron sat alone in the dining room, staring blankly at the buffering television.

The TV was airing news about the U.S. midterm elections. A report was raising suspicion that Senator Alex Lee, a candidate for governor of Helsota, had given inappropriate investment advice based on insider information. Just as an interview with his opponent began, the screen froze again—and then shifted to a segment announcing the discovery of a new mammal in the Amazon rainforest. But before long, the screen descended into endless buffering once more.

Eventually, the signal returned, and the anchor’s voice came through °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° with grave seriousness. As always, it was another update on Hurricane Titanus. But before the anchor could finish his first sentence, the broadcast cut out again—and at that exact moment, Sonia finished putting the dishes away.

Even after Sonia returned to her little corner in the pantry, Siron kept staring at the dead screen. But instead of registering the news, his mind replayed the scenes inside the lab.

The echo of 3547’s desperate screams, howling through the sensor-lit halls of the darkened facility, repeated endlessly in his head. Even after escaping, Siron had been haunted by the sound of that terror-stricken voice.

What happened to him?

Siron had a sinking feeling he already knew the answer. Just like Paco Torres, stripped of his name and rebranded as “V3” in a Hybris facility, 3547 would be erased. Forever nameless.

3011, 3543, 3547. Siron wondered if those numbers were more than IDs—if they symbolized the total number of victims: over 3,500. The weight of it crushed him.

But it wasn’t just that.

Since the last supply ship had visited the island, the number of burritos Siron prepared each day had dropped from 60 to 20.

A mere number on the surface, but Siron knew what it meant. Of the original kidnapped group—13 taken with him, plus 7 more abducted before him—only 20 captives remained on the island.

Which meant the 40 others who left on the ship—where had they gone? Were they headed for the same fate as Paco Torres?

Overwhelmed by helplessness, Siron sank into depression. He had no power to change anyone’s fate. But then, a light returned to his eyes—slowly, steadily.

I’m not going to be taken. Not me. Even if the sky falls, I’ll find a way out. I’ve survived worse.

Clinging to the last of his resolve, Siron stood up. He needed to pack food for the boat—just in case. As he stepped toward the kitchen, the mess hall door suddenly burst open.

A familiar figure entered, drenched in rain. It was the short one.

He appeared alone, soaked to the bone. Siron glanced at the wall clock. It was well past 8 p.m.

“Huh...? Your face...”

He had a red handprint on his cheek, and his clothes were disheveled.

They weren’t together all this time... were they?

The short one had taken Baekgyeong his meal around 4 p.m. He hadn’t come back for dinner. It was past 8 now. If they’d been together that whole time... that meant nearly four hours.

The short one sniffed the air as soon as he entered the dining room.

“Is that curry I smell?”

“Yes. The research director said he wanted some. I made it in advance.”

“Singh? Oh, right. You said you used to work at an Indian restaurant.”

He took a deep breath. The curry-scented air seemed to stir his appetite. His expression was oddly flushed, and even his tone sounded softer than usual. He wasn’t wearing his usual military vest and didn’t appear to be armed. He looked more like a friend stopping by to walk home with Siron after work.

Feeling uneasy, Siron asked cautiously:

“Should I set out dinner?”

“No, it’s fine. You need to head out anyway. Clean up and come with me.”

He walked out of the mess hall. His gait was noticeably awkward—like something below the waist had been overworked, like even the brush of underwear fabric was unbearable.

...What the hell?

Siron stared after him, unable to look away. He followed him outside—and ran into someone he hadn’t expected.

Baekgyeong was standing beside the electric cart, his face completely hollowed out. One look at that wrecked expression made Siron’s heart drop.

You slept with him.

A chill swept through Siron’s chest. Even though the rain was hammering down, the sound felt far away—like it came from another world. Siron didn’t know how to respond to this unexpected surge of emotion.

He and Baekgyeong walked the paved path back to the lab in silence, their feet moving in unison. A few paces behind, the short one walked with that same stiff, unnatural gait. The 100-meter distance felt like kilometers. Siron couldn’t stop thinking about it.

The short one didn’t seem afraid at all. Even though Baekgyeong and Siron could theoretically overpower him, torture him, threaten him into helping them escape—he looked utterly unbothered. Had Baekgyeong started to trust him? Had the short one built that trust?

Siron didn’t want to admit it—but he was uncomfortable. Deeply so.

Even after they were locked inside Baekgyeong’s cell and the short one left, neither Baekgyeong nor Siron said a word. Siron couldn’t bring himself to ask what had happened during those four hours.

But he realized he stood at a crossroads. He had two choices: ask “Did you fuck him?” or “Did you find the escape route?”

The first question meant nothing. Siron’s affection had burned out long ago—ashes cold and dead. But still, here he was, fanning sparks into damp, unlit logs.

“You slept with him, didn’t you?”

Baekgyeong’s tired eyes flew wide open. He looked at Siron like someone who’d just been doused in sewage.

“Huh? What?”

“You did, didn’t you? You slept with that bastard!”

“...Wow. What the fuck?”

“He’s walking around like a fucking old duck! Waddling with his ass sticking out! What the hell do you think that means? You pounded him with your cobra, didn’t you?!”

“Jesus. You’re accusing me just because the guy walks funny?”

“Explain.”

Siron stared at him, waiting for the truth. Baekgyeong was the type to blabber about useless shit but clam up when it mattered most. An immature asshole with a rotten habit. But still, Siron waited.

Eventually, Baekgyeong spoke—like it physically hurt him to admit it.

“We had simulated sex.”

It felt like being whacked in the back of the head with a cast iron pan. But then Siron remembered: the plan had been for Baekgyeong to masturbate in front of him.

“W-Wait. You mean you just jerked off in front of him, right?”

“No. I did something even more fucked up.”

“Fucked up...?”

Seeing Siron go pale, Baekgyeong answered darkly.

“I... stepped on his dick.”

“...What?”

“That disgusting thing. Even his balls. With my bare foot. I stomped on them. I’m gonna puke. Just thinking about it makes me gag.”

He steadied himself with one hand on the wall, the other clutching his chest as if trying to suppress nausea.

“Why the hell did you do that?”

“I punished him.”

“Punished?”

“He asked for it! That sick pervert begged to be humiliated!”

Siron was speechless. Baekgyeong kept going—and his next confession made Siron’s brain short-circuit.

“Four hours? I made him kneel, hold his arms in the air like he was being arrested. Holding a boulder twice the size of your head.”

“...Huh? Wh-What?”

Whenever Ian’s arms started to droop, Baekgyeong would slap his face and ass. At one point, Ian even dropped the rock, kissed Baekgyeong’s foot, and begged to have his nipples twisted and his dick stepped on.

“I feel like I’m the one who got psychologically humiliated.”

Baekgyeong pressed the base of his palm to his dry eyes, groaning in distress. To any outsider, Baekgyeong himself was a sexual deviant—after all, he’d once shoved a steel rod up Siron’s urethra—but he seemed to have forgotten all about their past.

Forget it. Just forget this conversation.

Right as his brain was about to short out, Siron hit his own mental erase button and asked numbly:

“So did you find the boat?”

Baekgyeong let out a sigh at Siron’s corpse-like face.

“It’s on the east side. About a kilometer south of the satellite tower. Hard to see—there’s a rock outcrop blocking it. But there’s a stairway leading down to the dock, right next to a cluster of five palm trees.”

“The boat key?”

“Under the east satellite tower. In the key locker.”

“What about your bomb collar?”

“Once the satellite signal’s cut, a 30-minute countdown starts. We have to deactivate the device with the remote before time runs out. If we do anything out of order—it explodes.”

“And he just told you that? You think he’s telling the truth?”

“Seems likely. I mean, I was pressing down on his balls really hard during the interrogation. Not much room for lies at that point.”

Fair. Even if Ian had lied, they had no way of proving it.

“How do we cut the satellite and use the remote?”

“...This is the part that really makes me wanna puke.”

Baekgyeong pressed his palm to his forehead and sighed.

“That sick bastard said he’d tell us... if the three of us have sex.”

“Why the hell am I included?”

“Who the fuck knows how that pervert’s mind works.”

At that moment, a low thud echoed through the thick concrete walls.

Footsteps. Someone was coming.

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