L*st and Death

Siron stared down at the dry cracker with a single slice of cheddar cheese and thought to himself. The passenger ship had plenty of decent food—why the hell had Isaac chosen to bring crackers and cheddar? As someone who couldn’t give up the joy of eating, Siron simply couldn’t understand the logic behind Isaac’s choice.

If it were me, I would’ve brought buttercream or Nutella instead of cheddar cheese. That would’ve made it at least edible.

Expression dulled by disappointment, Siron chewed through the entire bland cracker and chased it down with lukewarm water to wash the dry crumbs from his throat. Then he looked across the table at Rafael, who was asleep, and gently tapped the back of his hand to wake him—before blurting out a random complaint.

“Alphas really are... fuel-efficient, huh?”

Rafael blinked slowly awake.

“Huh?”

“Him. He manages to keep that huge body running on this kind of stuff.”

Rafael blinked blearily at Siron for a few seconds, then let out a slow, relaxed laugh. The pretty man’s casual demeanor was somehow refreshing—like eye drops clearing up a dry cornea. Siron couldn’t help but smile back.

“Well, that depends on the alpha. Plenty of them have appetites to match their sex drive.”

Rafael took a big bite of the cracker he’d been eating before falling asleep.

“But yeah—Isaac doesn’t just eat little; he barely even sleeps. It’s like he forgot what it’s like to be a normal human. Most people are dead tired after just two nights without sleep.”

Yawning like a hippo, Rafael wiped away the small tear that had formed at the [N O V E L I G H T] corner of his eye.

“You must be exhausted from driving all night.”

“The autopilot system handles most of it. That’s not why I couldn’t sleep.”

He shrugged as if it were nothing.

“I was too busy worrying the handsome guy in front of me might wake up.”

“You were worried I’d wake up? ...Why?”

“I didn’t want you to see something unpleasant. Anyway, as long as you slept well, it’s fine.”

“...Did something happen last night?”

Rafael avoided answering with a crooked grin, brushing cracker crumbs from his beard like dust. Clearly, Isaac had stirred up some sort of trouble overnight.

Siron stepped out of the lounge and immediately took in the situation. The hatch to the fish hold where Manu Singh had been locked up was now sealed shut. Just the night before, it had been left slightly open to allow air in, but now it was sealed tight without even a crack.

Siron instinctively knew: Singh had died during the night.

Strangely, he didn’t feel all that shocked. If anything, it seemed like a fitting end for a man like Singh. He simply stood there, calmly staring at the hatch. Still, part of him wondered—was it okay to feel so indifferent about someone’s death, no matter how wicked they were? He questioned whether his sense of morality had gone numb.

He headed toward the stern.

Isaac was just coming out of the wheelhouse. The engine noise had stopped—he must have shut it off—and the boat was now slicing through the waves at a much slower pace. Isaac lifted the recessed hatch at the center of the deck, opened the small lid inside, pulled out a 40-liter fuel canister, and began refueling the tank.

The midday sun gleamed fiercely off the ocean, casting dazzling crystal-like reflections. Siron narrowed his eyes and shaded them with one hand as he watched Isaac. The man had taken off the black coat he’d been wearing all morning, unable to bear the relentless heat. His white T-shirt underneath was soaked through with sweat, clinging tightly to his body and outlining his muscles with startling clarity—like the chisel marks in a sculpture of marble.

Siron was reminded of an old fable his grandmother used to read to him in bed—Aesop’s The Wind and the Sun.

“The strongest force in the world is the wind!”

“You may be strong, but you’ll never beat the sun.”

They argued every time they met, so one day they decided to hold a contest—who could make a passing traveler take off his coat. The wind blew hard, but the traveler only clutched his coat tighter. The gale howled, and he wrapped himself up even more.

But the sun... simply shone.

The traveler grumbled at the sudden heat and removed his coat. Then the sun burned even brighter, and the traveler eventually stripped completely and dove into the river to cool off.

Siron thought idly that if Isaac were to strip off all his clothes and dive into the sea, the sun would need to shine just a little hotter.

Isaac finished refueling, wiped the sweat from his jaw with the hem of his T-shirt, then pulled it off completely and stuffed it into the back pocket of his pants like a towel. Leaving the door open, he stepped into the wheelhouse, restarted the engine, and looked back at Siron standing at the stern.

“Like what you see?”

“...Huh? What?”

“You were staring so intently I figured you wanted me to take it off.”

Siron frowned, as if he’d just heard something totally unhinged.

“Me?”

He pointed at himself with the palm of his hand, then let out a hollow laugh.

“Ha, why would I stare at some sweaty, muscular guy’s body? It’s not like there’s anything worth seeing. Covered in scars...”

Mid-sentence, Siron bit his lip, realizing he’d said something oddly specific and unnecessarily suggestive.

“Sure, sure.”

Isaac sighed and shook his head, then activated the autopilot system.

Unable to stand the awkwardness, Siron rushed to the railing and stared into the sea, clutching at his hair. The memory of the night before surged up like a tidal wave—him clinging to Isaac and begging him to thrust deeper into his aching hole.

Utterly conflicted yet helplessly drawn in, Siron circled around Isaac like a satellite caught in gravity. He eventually returned to him, folded his arms, leaned against the doorframe, and asked:

“Why are we going to Belzoras? Shouldn’t we be going to the U.S. to report everything?”

“Report everything?”

“We should go punish the bastards who did this to us! Tell the police and the press!”

Isaac reclined lazily against the backrest of the pilot’s chair and stared at Siron for a long moment before replying.

“And you plan to walk into a den of alphas with a body that reacts to pheromones like yours? That’s bold.”

“And whose fault is it that my body’s like this?!”

Siron shouted, glaring at him with fury.

“Fix it.”

“God, you’re exhausting.”

Isaac clicked his tongue and frowned.

“You keep forgetting I’m the one who made you like this.”

He rested his chin in his palm and added flatly:

“It’s time you accept the fact that you’re an omega.”

“How the hell am I supposed to accept that I’ve become a goddamn animal that goes into heat every time the wind changes?!”

Siron stomped his foot in frustration and yelled. Isaac stared at his tantrum without a flicker of emotion.

“That’s exactly why we’re going to Belzoras. To fix that.”

“Fix it? ...You mean the heat?”

Siron thought back to something Isaac had said long ago. He’d explained that when an alpha leaves a mark on an omega’s nape during rut, an imprint occurs. Whatever the mechanism was, the point was clear: Siron would be going into heat soon.

“It forces the omega to only interact with one alpha for life. Once imprinted, only that alpha can perceive the omega’s pheromones.”

Even if Siron went around spewing pheromones like wildfire, only Isaac would be able to smell them after imprinting.

“You’re saying you’ll imprint me?”

“That’s right. After the imprint, you’re free to leave.”

In other words, once he’d extended his life through Siron, Isaac was willing to cut him loose. It was freedom in name only. It really meant: I’ve used you, now go survive on your own.

Siron looked at the man who’d wrecked his life—and now talked about discarding him—with undisguised contempt.

And this was the man they were entrusting not just his life, but Baekgyeong’s recovery to? The thought made him uneasy. For all he knew, Baekgyeong could already be in danger—snuffed out in the dead of night like Manu Singh, deemed no longer useful.

“The fish hold was closed.”

“So?”

Siron opened his mouth, fully prepared to press the point until Isaac admitted what he’d done. But Isaac’s response was indifferent.

“I told you to keep it open so Singh could get air.”

“You did.”

“Then why was the lid closed?”

Siron knew Isaac was dangerous. But when they were together, he kept acting like a naive puppy who didn’t fear the tiger. Even now, some combination of hope for mercy and buried resentment made him prod for answers he already knew.

He hesitated, then asked:

“Don’t tell me... you killed Singh?”

“If I’d waited to handle him on land, there would’ve been too many restrictions.”

Manu Singh had been a criminal. He didn’t deserve compassion. And Siron had already suspected he’d been killed.

But now that it was confirmed—he had been murdered, not by accident or illness, but by deliberate action—the chill that ran down Siron’s spine was unexpected.

Did Singh beg you to spare him?

He wanted to ask. But something told him that if he heard the details of that death, the shock wouldn’t be something he could just shake off.

In the end, Siron said nothing. He turned around and returned to the lounge.

Just because Isaac looked like a movie star didn’t mean he was the hero of one. But Siron found himself instinctively searching for humanity in him—like someone sifting through ashes, hoping to find something that hadn’t burned.

He didn’t want to admit it.

But Yoon Siron... was developing feelings for Isaac.

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