L*st and Death

The doctor who hadn’t once risen from his desk since Siron arrived—whose face bore not even a speck of friendliness—finally stood up.

His slicked-back black hair left no strands out of place, and his eyes were a sharp, ice-blue. With pronounced brow bones and deep-set eyes, he gave off more of an actor’s aura than a doctor’s.

In the film industry, no matter how skilled the acting, it was the natural aura and image that ultimately determined casting. Even bad actors landed roles if their image fit the character—and this doctor looked like he’d make a striking villain in a superhero movie.

His muscular build was too thick for his white coat, and sure enough, he was as tall as a power forward on a basketball team. In contrast, his skin was ghostly pale, like someone who’d been locked in a psychiatric ward all year round. And his hands—so massive it was hard to believe they were capable of delicate surgery. Siron thought that even if he were dying from kidney stones, he’d never want to entrust his body to those saucepan-lid-sized hands.

The two of them moved to a small, windowless isolation room and sat facing each other across a narrow table. Siron held out his arm for the doctor, who was prepping for the blood draw and injection. The man measured Siron’s blood pressure.

“Your blood pressure is a little high.”

“Uh... does that make me ineligible for the trial?”

“Not that high.”

“I guess I’m a bit nervous.”

“Hm. Did you go over the risk disclosure for clinical side effects?”

Before coming to the hospital, Siron had read the Participant Guide online. It clearly listed possible adverse effects from the drug: abdominal bloating, a sense of incomplete urination, testicular shrinkage, impaired sperm production, gynecomastia, and hair loss.

It all sounded like he was about to be hit with a barrage of horrific symptoms. But from his prior experiences with clinical trial gigs, Siron knew these side effects only occurred in a vanishingly small number of cases—maybe one in thousands or tens of thousands. No pharmaceutical company in a capitalist society would risk massive financial loss running a trial that was doomed to fail.

“Of course I read it. But if it’s already passed Phase I, that basically means the side effects are negligible, right?”

“Rare, but not non-existent.”

“If I get side effects, I’ll just drop out midway.”

Siron gave a lazy grin, gauging the reaction of the conservative-looking doctor.

“This trial’s offering pretty good conditions, but I haven’t seen anyone else around. Am I really the only applicant?”

The doctor, who was tying a tourniquet around Siron’s upper arm and gently tapping the inner flesh to locate a vein, answered matter-of-factly.

“Twenty people applied. Considering it’s currently 10:15 p.m., Mr. Yoon, you’re the last scheduled visit.”

That meant there were at least nineteen other young erectile dysfunction patients like Siron in this hellhole of a state. Somehow, that gave Siron a faint sense of camaraderie with those nameless, faceless men, and he let out an awkward smile.

“Oh... I just assumed you accepted late appointments because you offer late-night consultations.”

“Occasionally, yes. So if any adverse reactions occur, call me—even in the middle of the night.”

The doctor cleaned the selected vein with an alcohol swab and deftly inserted the needle. Siron averted his gaze, unable to watch his own blood being drawn—and his eyes landed instead on the embroidered patch stitched onto the doctor’s coat.

Johnson Doctor Urology

Dr. Johnson Lube

Johnson Lubra... That’s gotta be the most urologist-ass name I’ve ever heard.

A small snort escaped him, and the doctor’s gaze followed Siron’s to the embroidery. Siron quickly wiped the smirk off his face and lowered his eyes solemnly, as if he hadn’t just scoffed.

“It’s kind of... a lube-sounding name, isn’t it?”

Dr. Johnson, having studied Siron’s expression for a moment, replied casually, as if it were a normal topic of conversation.

“Pretty slick name, huh?”

“Very smooth.”

“Strange. When lube isn’t used, it always ends with blood.”

Siron didn’t get it at first.

He was talking about sex—and how sex without lube always ended in blood. Which meant... his dick was so big that it tore people open if he didn’t use lube.

What the fuck is wrong with this guy?

After about a three-second buffer, Siron finally parsed the meaning and froze.

The doctor, meanwhile, calmly opened Siron’s clenched fist.

“It hurts more if you tense up. Relax your hand.”

Dr. Johnson spoke in the same quiet tone as before—like he hadn’t just made a fucked-up sexual remark. Though his words were clinically neutral, Siron’s brain—already off in dirty territory from the earlier exchange—shuddered involuntarily. The doctor’s raspy, low voice dragged on in a way that left a disturbing aftertaste.

The more Siron thought about it, the worse it got.

What, was that supposed to be a dick flex? To an erectile dysfunction patient?

Suddenly, all those one-star reviews Siron had seen on Google for “Johnson Doctor Urology” made perfect sense.

But his irritation didn’t last long. The doctor finished filling several vials for blood sampling, then immediately took out a brown ampoule. As he loaded the injectable drug into the syringe, Siron asked nervously,

“It’s safe... right?”

“Well. Clinical trials inherently carry the possibility of unpredictable adverse reactions.”

Dr. Johnson didn’t bother offering the reassurance Siron had been hoping for.

Siron didn’t want to suffer side effects just for a bit of money. Life was already unlucky and unfair enough. He muttered a half-hearted self-hypnosis.

“...They said it passed Phase I. I’ll be fine. I mean—what’s the worst that could happen?”

***

“How about curry for lunch?”

Every time Anna reached into the bag of chips, the crinkle of plastic sounded like thunder. To Lewis, it grated on his nerves like metal scraping metal.

Her husky voice stabbed through his eardrums like an ice pick. And the scent from the diffuser? It was as if someone had jammed raw lavender into his skull and started grinding. His brain felt overloaded with sensory input.

There was no doubt about it—this was a side effect of the procedure. No other explanation fit. His first rut cycle had gone horrifically, and now his once steel-wired, dulled nerves were raw and hypersensitive. Especially since yesterday, all five senses had gone into overdrive. It felt like he was about to short-circuit.

“Curry King? The reviews look good. Want me to order from here?”

He could still taste the bitter greenness of the salad he had for breakfast. Curry? That heavy aroma would haunt him for two days, at least.

“Lewis! Are you even listening? I’m getting curry delivery, okay? You want beef, right?”

The moment Anna laid a casual hand on his knee, Lewis’s whole body stiffened. He barely restrained the overwhelming urge to shove her off. The storm raging inside his body only ravaged his soul—he forced a dumb smile, not letting anything show.

“Ah, sorry. I was watching TV. Didn’t hear you.”

“What’s with the face? Don’t like your performance?”

Just then, the sound of battlefield gunfire echoed from the television. It was the Return to Bunker series, a war drama produced by NetPlus. In the trench, a mud-splattered Lewis looked longingly at his comrade. In contrast, the real-life Lewis outside the screen sat clean-faced and expressionless.

“Anna... I look really different now, huh?”

The series had been filmed just a year ago, but with his current build, the boy on screen looked like a baby.

“Well, I guess you look better now.”

Her comment brought a gloomy flicker to Lewis’s face.

“Not that it matters. I don’t even know if I can keep acting.”

“Take your time figuring that out. You don’t have to decide right now.”

Anna wiped chip grease off her hand onto her T-shirt and added,

“I’m ordering curry for lunch. Beef for you?”

“Yeah.”

As she made the call, Lewis turned away from her and stared across the living room at the panic room with a bitter look.

It was a small space converted from a bathroom—big enough for four adult men to lie down shoulder-to-shoulder. Reinforced with walls that could withstand fifty rounds from a machine gun, the room had triple locks on the door. But unlike standard panic rooms, this one could only be opened from the outside.

Construction had started right after Lewis was admitted to New Life Clinic, and it was finished before he was discharged. It was built for one purpose only: to lock him inside. Because for Lewis, whose ruts began without warning and ended just as unpredictably, a cage was necessary.

He would soon become a violent, primal beast—and he would have to endure endless time in that state. Drowning in mindless lust and overwhelming despair, all he could do was desperately wait for someone to save him.

There had to be someone.

Just like men and women feel sexual attraction, like anacondas seek partners during monsoon mating season, like lions mate obsessively during their breeding window—there had to be someone out there, warped like him, craving the same twisted coupling and breeding.

Even though he’d never met that person, Lewis could feel it vividly.

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