L*st and Death

“If all it takes is pheromones, does that mean any cock will do?”

Baekgyeong forced his mouth open and swallowed the fireball. He knew this sensation well—a heat like indigestion, scorching him from within. No matter how he scraped his throat, he couldn’t vomit it up; no matter how furiously he shook his cock until the skin pulled tight, he couldn’t discharge that heat. It resembled pleasure, but never reached it—an unending blaze that left him desperate for release.

It was rut—more politely called the rut cycle, the period of hormonal activation.

He was caught in it, trapped in a space barely seven square meters wide. A ventilation fan high above, far out of reach, roared ceaselessly, grinding against his eardrums. The ceiling’s incandescent light blazed like a cruel sun, making his eyes ache.

The bed he lay on was made of some metal alloy with a complicated name, restraints arranged with cruel precision over his ankles, thighs, waist, chest, neck, forehead, and arms—restricting even the turn of his head.

He arched his neck and twisted like an animal, but only the sharp bite of metal cutting into his flesh answered him. The surface, crusted with dried blood, stung unbearably.

He knew this place well. Back in the days before suppressants, this was where he had endured rut in misery—the secure room of the closed ward at Stone Creek Psychiatric Hospital. When rut began, he would be locked in that small cell, burning endlessly on his own body as fuel. At some point they had started gagging him, because his screams pierced the soundproof walls and concrete to spread through the ward, spawning ghastly rumors like a ghost story.

His moans and cries would die muffled in the gag, and when his eyes festered from salt crystals left by dried tears, someone would appear with a cold, wet cloth to roughly wipe them away.

And then, in the cleared vision, the face of his mother—unable to hide her disgust. An expression stained with the realization and regret that he had done something monstrous. The fierce hostility of a woman who had just faced a disaster that might ruin her life.

That face stayed lodged in a corner of his mind, circling endlessly, stoking his rage. But even caught between betrayal and the urge for revenge, even wanting to die, he could not let go of the desperate wish to bury his cock deep in hot flesh. If he could only hear Siron’s ragged moans of pleasure beneath him, he felt he could endure any pain.

“Hold on. I’m going to push deeper.”

“Haaah—no, no, ah—aaah...!”

Somewhere, he heard it—Siron’s ragged moan of pleasure, exactly as he longed for. But another voice, one that should never be there, cut in unpleasantly. If only he could strip that voice away, mute that grating sound, he would gladly burn longer in this hell.

But even when it grew faint, it never vanished completely.

“Hah... haa... I quite like it.”

“I—I can’t... mmph... hhhhnngh!”

Don’t. Don’t, you fucker. He said he can’t, you filthy dogshit bastard. Baekgyeong screamed curses toward the owner of that hateful voice until his throat would burst, but nothing reached them. While they clung to each other in their squalid coupling, his soul and body remained locked in the closed ward.

Worse, the room built just for him began to shrink, the walls pressing in on every inch of him. The more he struggled, the tighter the restraints pulled, until he couldn’t move a single fingertip. It was no longer a room—it was the prison of his flesh, trapping his soul. He dimly realized it.

He knew that the rut cycle he suffered in that bodily prison and the reality beyond were somehow brushing against each other—but it took a long time before he could break through the wall of unconsciousness and rise fully to the surface.

At last, escaping that solid prison of the mind, Baekgyeong woke screaming. And at the same moment, he forgot everything that had happened in the dream, remembering only a strange sense of wrongness.

“Fuck... what the hell.”

Sitting up, he muttered a low curse at the stabbing pain in his side and the lingering ache between his legs. He knew the cause immediately—the bandages wrapped tightly around his torso, the faintly stained patches of dried blood along his flank. His last memory stopped at the moment Ian Fitzner’s knife pierced him. His face went pale.

But that stabbing recollection was swept away when his eyes caught a new sight that defied belief.

“...The fuck is that?”

His pants and underwear were shoved down to his thighs, and his cock stood tall, defiantly stiff and upright. The sight of it—like he was looking at some alien organ—filled him with a deep, crawling disgust.

He had come so much that fresh, thick semen layered over crusted, dried semen, like melted wax building in thin strata. It was clear he’d spilled it all without a single stroke of his own hand.

“...Was I completely out cold?”

He stared down at his clean palms, muttering. If he’d been conscious even faintly, he would have been stroking himself raw—and his hands would hardly be clean.

It had been so long since he’d faced rut without suppressants that even to him, his swollen, furious cock looked strange and grotesque. It made his stomach churn like he might vomit, the heat inside him going cold.

Dragging up his heavy body, he stripped off his clothes, ripped away the bandages soaked with discharge from the wound, and headed straight for the shower. The mirror showed a pitiful sight—he must have lost at least ten kilos. Not quite skeletal, but with the clear pallor of illness.

And from how he’d thrashed through the rut cycle unconscious, even his face and chest bore traces of dried semen. Standing under cold water, he washed away the crust from his body and the seepage from his stitched wound, then towel-dried and stepped out.

He took in the bare living room with its table and chairs, the modest kitchen, the cabinet taking up most of one wall, and the small room where he had just been lying. In one corner of the empty living room lay Siron’s worn clothes and his mother’s cellphone. It seemed the two of them had managed to escape the island.

“He’s dead, right?”

Biting into a stack of dry, military-issue waffles, Baekgyeong thought about Ian Fitzner. He felt a flicker of guilt, but there had been no way to coax someone who had tried to kill him into boarding an escape vessel together.

He really had nearly died. He couldn’t remember how he had survived, but seeing the neatly sutured wound, he figured Isaac Bazelli had done the work.

So where were those two now?

His thoughts were foggy, but after a long time pondering, he realized Siron must have left with Isaac to avoid his rut.

Together.

Siron and Isaac were together.

He had to find Siron. But there was no storming out blindly from this windowless space whose layout he didn’t even understand. The madness of rut had passed, but with his cock still refusing to soften, it was clear the cycle wasn’t over. This was only a brief lull—another wave of intense symptoms was sure to come.

Better to think of a way to restrain himself in here than open that door without a plan. But the thought that Siron and Isaac might be somewhere right now, doing something indecent together, would not leave him.

Anxious, Baekgyeong stared at the firmly shut door.

Siron didn’t want to return to the hideout without knowing for sure that Baekgyeong’s rut cycle had ended. Fortunately, he had a backup plan. Behind the hideout building was a narrow, long parking lot. The high walls and the building’s shadow naturally concealed anything parked there, perfect for hiding a car.

Isaac flattened the back seat for him into a makeshift bed, promised to be back soon, and left. Alone on the roadside, Siron didn’t feel scared or uncomfortable. Compared to the bare floor with only a blanket back on the island, the car seat bed felt like a five-star hotel.

Maybe because he hadn’t rested properly or because his body had been overworked since Baekgyeong’s rut began, his body still ached faintly deep inside as he drifted toward sleep. Without even a blanket, his skin was hot, muscles sore all over.

Something—whether from fatigue or fever—spread along his spine. His lower back throbbed faintly, residual heat flowing through him, making the sealed car feel stifling. But he didn’t have the strength to roll down the window all the way.

Maybe it’s just because we went at it too long, he thought, before sleep took him.

Hours later, the car jolted—someone outside was yanking hard on the door handle.

Fear snapped him awake, but just as quickly, that fear transformed into a searing, aching heat. Through the narrow gap of the cracked window, he caught the scent of an alpha’s pheromones.

The same familiar pheromones that had kept him fevered with lust these past three days.

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