L*st and Death

Siron stepped back and quickly checked Baekgyeong’s condition. His breathing was so shallow and faint that Siron’s mind felt bleached white with panic. Hurriedly, he pulled out his phone. He punched in 911—then realized his mistake and, startled, corrected it to 119 and hit call.

Just before the call connected, a bruised blue hand snatched the phone away.

“You fucking idiot. If you call 119... all three of us are fucked.”

Choi Seongmin, his hand trembling, deleted the 119 and entered a different number, calling someone else. Siron had no time to worry about him. He clasped Baekgyeong’s limp hand in both of his own. Only then did Baekgyeong’s fingers begin to twitch—faint strength returning to his grip.

“...You were gonna leave all the stuff I gave you behind?”

Baekgyeong, still half-dazed, clutched Siron’s hand tightly and muttered,

“Were you going to leave me?”

Like a paused video resuming mid-sentence, he whispered the words he had been about to say before losing consciousness.

Siron’s mouth parted in disbelief. Baekgyeong, as if lost in a dream, looked at him and let out a sigh, lowering his head. Their joined hands were trembling violently.

“...Fuck.”

Baekgyeong squeezed his eyes shut, then opened them again, avoiding Siron’s gaze as he mumbled,

“It was a partial seizure. I acted a little weird, didn’t I?”

“...Not a little. A lot.”

Baekgyeong made an irritable motion as if to sweep back his bangs—but realized again there was nothing to brush, having shaved his head. He sighed deeply.

“It doesn’t happen often.”

“I can tell. I haven’t seen it even once in the past two years.”

“...Was I breathing?”

“...Yeah. Barely.”

Then the distinct snap of a flip phone closing echoed through the room. Baekgyeong turned his eyes toward the sound.

Seongmin, looking like death, was holding out the phone toward Siron. His dazed eyes flicked from Siron to the bloodied state of his own body, slowly returning to reality.

“I called your father.”

“...My dad? Or Choi Chigeon?”

Seongmin shot Baekgyeong a venomous glare at his flippant use of his parents’ names.

“Yeah, your uncle.”

Baekgyeong’s face, still dazed, showed a flicker of annoyance.

“You got your ass beat and still called him? You trying to guilt-trip me? Tell him not to come.”

“It’s too late. I called your mom too.”

“...My mom?”

“She already left for Korea right after you. She’s on her way here as we speak. She explicitly said not to call 119.”

Baekgyeong blinked slowly at Seongmin.

“Pretty sure you’re the one who needs the paramedics more than I do.”

Pretending not to hear him, Seongmin wiped the blood from beneath his eyes with a trembling hand. His condition looked worse than ever—as if standing upright was taking everything he had—but still, he stayed on his feet. Siron worried for him, but didn’t dare ask if he was okay.

“I shouldn’t be here. I’ll come back after your parents leave.”

As Siron tried to avoid Baekgyeong’s touch and slip away, Seongmin stepped in his path.

“Fuck no, where do you think you’re going? This all happened because of you!”

Siron immediately rescinded his earlier concern.

For a second, something like hostility flared in his eyes. Ignoring Seongmin’s outburst, he moved toward the door—but just then, the doorbell rang. Someone began pounding on the door, loud as a war drum.

“Can’t they block people in the lobby? What kind of building has this for security?”

Baekgyeong, reflexively reaching to clutch his hair, realized once more that it was gone. In frustration, he kicked the cabinet beside him.

Siron hesitated, flustered like a cornered animal—but quickly came to his senses.

Just say hello and run.

He promised himself, then opened the door. A tall, middle-aged woman with graying hair stepped inside. When she saw Siron standing there, she paused. Her outfit was expensive. Her hair, cut to a sharp mid-length, framed a healthy and charismatic face—the kind that had never once appeared in media with makeup on. It was impossible not to recognize her.

It was Choi Baekhee, the wealthiest female CEO in South Korea.

Her sharp gaze swept Siron up and down in a blink. Then, her eyes shifted to the living room beyond, half-hidden behind the hallway wall, before returning to Siron.

“Aren’t you going to greet me?”

“Ah... Hello.”

“Yes.”

She stood in place, silently watching him. When Siron hesitated awkwardly, she asked without a change in expression:

“Your name? Why you’re here? Don’t know how to introduce yourself?”

“M-my name is Yoon Siron. I’m... Baekgyeong’s friend. I was just stopping by.”

“Hmm, ‘just stopping by’...”

“Agh! Why the hell are you making him say that crap?!”

Baekgyeong came storming down the hallway and barked the words like an attack. Siron glanced nervously at her, startled by his rudeness—but she only shrugged and replied,

“Fine. ...I’m Baekgyeong’s mother. So Yoon Siron—come inside too.”

She gave Siron a long look before shifting her attention to Baekgyeong. Her expression looked like someone staring at a moldy dish she was too tired to clean—an exhausted disgust, barely concealed behind a thin, indifferent mask.

But her face cracked like shattered glass the moment Seongmin appeared.

“Seongmin! What happened to your face?!”

“Aunt...”

Seongmin, his features almost unrecognizable from the beating, bowed his head respectfully. As she rushed to him in shock, he collapsed into her arms like he’d been waiting for that moment, finally losing consciousness.

At the end of the Joseon Dynasty, Baekgyeong’s great-great-grandfather, Choi Paul, was a Catholic who worked menial jobs for a British priest in Iksan, North Jeolla. The priest passed on skin disease treatments he had devised, which Choi Paul merged with traditional Korean medicine to develop a salve especially effective against skin conditions and arthritis.

During the Japanese occupation, he moved to Seoul and opened Baekhwa Apothecary, selling the salve. Its effectiveness led to massive success.

His son, Choi Mangang, inherited the apothecary. It later split into two branches: Baekhwa Oriental Clinic and Baekhwa Pharmaceuticals, which were passed down to his eldest and second sons, Choi Jooyoung and Choi Jooman.

Choi Jooman was a natural businessman. In the 1960s, he made a fortune developing digestive and anti-diarrheal medicines. In the ’80s, he rebranded Baekhwa Pharmaceuticals to Vile Group, partnered with Danish and Swedish pharma companies, and rapidly expanded.

Choi Jooman had two children: Choi Baekho and Choi Baekhee, both of whom were educated in the U.S. In the late ’80s, Baekho returned to Korea and began preparing to inherit the company—but died in a yacht accident along with his entire family, leaving the successor position vacant.

Some speculated that Choi Chigeon, Baekhee’s cousin and Seongmin’s father—who ran the Baekhwa Oriental Clinic—would inherit Vile Group instead. But when Baekhee returned to Korea and assumed control, the rumors naturally faded.

Chigeon had likely pinned his hopes on inheriting the company, only to have his dream crushed. His attempts to cling to even the crumbs of Baekhee’s success, and his son’s eagerness to serve as Baekgyeong’s lapdog, all stemmed from that same desperate ambition.

That day, Choi Seongmin was taken to the hospital with severe trauma all over his body. Muscle ruptures, bruises, fractures, and a mild concussion. Even by car accident standards, it was considered a major injury—diagnosed with four weeks of recovery.

Choi Chigeon arrived at Baekgyeong’s house later, seething with rage. His innocent son had been brutally assaulted by his younger cousin. Of course he saw red.

He wanted Baekgyeong punished. But when Baekhee and her lawyers began negotiating specific settlement terms, he begrudgingly sat down at the table. Baekgyeong didn’t know the exact amount, but it was clearly more than what he’d originally agreed to loan. For the Choi men, it wasn’t a bad deal—they’d earned hefty compensation for the beating.

“You ever heard of the phrase ho-bu-gyeon-ja?”

Lying in a VIP hospital bed, Baekgyeong murmured the words while blankly watching the TV.

“Never.”

Siron, chewing on a peeled apple from the caregiver, replied with his usual sullen tone.

“It means ‘a dog of a son under a tiger father.’ It’s an old idiom.”

“How the hell do you know that?”

“My brother told me. He’s a super polite guy... I pissed him off a little.”

“I can imagine.”

Siron stuffed his mouth with more apple, chewed for a while, then swallowed it all and continued.

“But in your case, wouldn’t it be more like ho-mo-gyeon-ja? Tiger mom, dog son.”

“Sounds more like ‘homosexual bastard’ to me. Jesus, what a degenerate.”

Siron burst out laughing, almost spitting out his apple. He covered his mouth in time.

The two of them laughed over nothing. Like couples who fight to the extreme and hurt each other constantly, only to return to normal after a moment’s rest. As if it was normal. As if this had always been their rhythm.

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