L*st and Death

"Good day. This is Dr. Johnson.

I’m reaching out regarding the final confirmation for Day 6 following your second dose of testosterone or placebo (injection group). Please complete the report and a short survey..."

Below the generic message a clinical trial doctor might send to a participant, hidden beneath ten hard returns as if to obscure a private conversation, Johnson's real message continued.

---

Hello, Siron.

It seems you were very worried about not submitting feedback on Days 2 and 3 after the second dose. You asked if it would negatively affect the trial—please don’t worry. Since no significant adverse reactions were observed in your case, we’ve concluded there’s no need to revise the protocol or administer any medical treatment. For the same reason, I will report to the pharmaceutical company that there should be no deduction in your compensation.

P.S. I’m relieved to hear nothing happened that night. I was concerned something unfortunate might have occurred since you and the man both disappeared.

I’m unharmed as well. That man who claims to be your relative, Baek Kyung, vanished that very night. Perhaps he was simply following after you out of concern. Even if I encounter him again, as you requested, I won’t share any information about your current whereabouts.

Now, shall we proceed with the third injection? It would be ideal to administer it before August 8th. Please reply with your availability.

I’m looking forward to seeing you soon, Siron.

---

“What the hell? Why do you want to see me soon?”

Siron muttered flatly, though despite his indifferent expression, his eyes were wide and gleaming as he read the email again. And again. And again.

“He was so standoffish before. What’s this now?”

This was the same man who had made a clean getaway, quick and almost embarrassing in his haste, the moment Siron had begged him to play the part of a lover—just to help him survive a life-or-death confrontation with Baek Kyung. Yet now, with ambiguous and strangely intimate wording, he left Siron feeling unsteady and confused.

Siron had planned to respond with a short message confirming his availability for the third injection along with the completed survey. But he changed his mind and stood up. If possible, he wanted to get a very quick response from Johnson. He needed to hear his voice.

“Hi, I’m staying in Room 209. Could I use the phone?”

The old motel owner sitting behind the counter, eyes fixed on the TV, looked up at Siron with a frown. His gaze seemed to demand why anyone in today’s world—where cell phones were so common—would need to borrow a landline.

“That’s suspicious.”

“Sorry?”

“You don’t have a cell phone, the address you wrote in the registry doesn’t even exist—it’s a fake building—and every morning, you always sneak one extra bagel and one more yogurt than we provide. What exactly is your deal?”

Siron felt his mind go blank at the motel owner’s sudden attack. A delayed surge of embarrassment slapped his face like a hard pinch, and his cheeks flushed with shame.

“You’re not sneaking people in late at night, are you?”

“Sorry? Oh—no, no.”

“Tsk. Just tell me the truth. Even if someone only stays for ten minutes, you’ve gotta pay the two-person room rate.”

The motel owner’s annoyance was palpable. Judging by his tone, he clearly thought Siron was some kind of young, broke prostitute drifting from place to place. And truthfully, Siron was broke—and his past work had come dangerously close to prostitution. But it stung to still be seen that way when he was trying to leave that behind.

He didn’t want to fight with the motel owner over a stupid bagel or yogurt.

“I’ve really been alone the whole time. And about the address... I’m sorry. I don’t have a stable place to live right now, so I left it blank.”

“You’ve got a job, don’t you? At least write your workplace’s address.”

“Well...”

Siron gave a sheepish smile, as if embarrassed to say it aloud.

“I don’t belong to a company.”

“A company?”

“I’m an actor. I keep failing auditions though. Maybe it’s because I’m Asian—the roles I can get are limited.”

He gave a soft, self-deprecating laugh, and the motel owner fell silent. Siron could see the faint flicker of sympathy—and that particular brand of white superiority—cross the man’s face. He buried his irritation and smiled even wider.

“I’ll pay you back for the bagels and yogurt soon. I should be getting paid in a few days for a clinical trial gig.”

He even threw in information he didn’t need to share, knowing it would win him the pity he’d aimed for. Sure enough, the motel owner looked a little sheepish as he replied.

“Don’t worry about it. Not worth making a fuss. I just asked about the address because... well, we’ve had some incidents.”

“Incidents?”

“There was a case recently where someone nearly died. The guy said he was staying alone, but someone must’ve come to visit. He was high out of his mind and didn’t even realize his lower half was soaked in blood. I was the one who found him. The police didn’t give a damn—guess they thought he was just some hooker. Even though the guy on the security footage was huge—built like a doorframe—they took the footage and we haven’t heard a word since. It’s the third time I’ve had to throw out all the bedding because of something like that.”

So the motel owner had mistaken Siron for a sex worker. Siron gave a stiff, awkward smile, and the owner scratched his head like he regretted saying too much.

“You can use the phone on that table over there. Normally there’s a charge, but go ahead. I won’t charge you.”

“You’re very kind. Thank you.”

Still, the owner kept glancing over, as if eager to pry further. Siron deliberately turned his head, forcing his face into a "troubled-but-grateful" smile—then dropped the act the second he looked away. His eyes turned cold as he picked up the worn-out pale-blue phone.

Fuck, this is so annoying!

It was bad enough being mistaken for a prostitute, but the mention of that assault—one that had supposedly happened in this very motel—unnerved him deeply. Maybe it was because of what he'd just been through, but the story didn't feel so distant anymore.

If Baek Kyung hadn’t come for him that night...

It was a pointless hypothetical, but Siron couldn’t stop the images from flooding back the moment he was alone again.

That man’s overwhelming body, pressing down like a wall. His own body, tossed around like a doll. His strength, his will—completely powerless under that domination.

The moment that man slipped between his legs and aimed his cock at the hole—his muscles had locked with adrenaline, his breath had hitched, gasping like he’d forgotten how to inhale.

“You’re not gonna make the call?”

Startled, Siron snapped out of the flashback and turned awkwardly. The motel owner, maybe feeling friendlier after their earlier talk, was watching him with a smile. It was a simple gesture of friendliness, but it gave Siron the chills—like a silent laugh from someone who knew everything.

“...Yeah. I will.”

He croaked out the words, forced a smile, and dialed the hospital. He’d really wanted to call Johnson Lube’s personal phone from the start—but that felt too personal. Too intrusive.

But the hospital line just kept ringing. No one was picking up.

He had no choice. He had to call Johnson’s cell.

“Had to”—what a lame excuse.

This wasn’t some ploy to build a personal relationship.

Siron entered Johnson’s number with ceremonial precision. The call connected. The dial tone barely lasted before the man picked up.

—“Siron?”

The soft male voice sent a wave of relief through Siron’s chest, like a breath released after holding it for too long.

“Yes. It’s °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° me.”

—“Is something wrong?”

Was he exercising? Johnson’s breath came quick and shallow, and it sounded... sexy. Siron cleared his throat before answering.

“I sent the survey answers by email.”

—“I’ll check right away.”

“Oh—no, no need to rush... ha...”

A moment of silence. Then came the rhythmic slap of gentle waves against something solid on the other end. A canoe? No—probably something larger. A boat, definitely. It sounded like Johnson was traveling somewhere by water.

“Are you outside?”

—“Yes.”

“Don’t tell me... Secreta again?”

Johnson didn’t answer, but gave a quiet laugh.

Siron teased him, half playful, half amused.

“You’re skipping work to go hiking again? Or is it canoeing this time?”

—“If I had to compare, it’s more like boat touring. Anyway, what’s the call about?”

“The third dose.”

—“Ah, right. Scheduling... Damn, hold on.”

He sounded distracted, like he’d completely forgotten. Which made sense. There were twenty trial participants—keeping track of each schedule had to be a nightmare.

After a moment, Johnson spoke again.

—“So it’s the final dose.”

Siron made an effort not to get sentimental. He answered brightly.

“Yep! Finally the last one.”

He exhaled deeply, like letting go of a burden, then hurried on.

“Can we do it tomorrow? Around 11 a.m.?”

—“The hospital’s under repair, so I don’t think you can come in.”

“Repair? Is it because of... that night?”

—“It’s unrelated to you. We just had a... difficult patient come in.”

Difficult patient. Siron immediately pictured Baek Kyung throwing a fit at the clinic after Siron had run. But even then, he couldn’t bring himself to offer money to help with repairs. The thought that his very existence kept burdening others made him feel unbearably small.

“When do you think I could...”

—“Let’s do it tomorrow. If you tell me where, I’ll come to you.”

“But you just said the hospital’s under repair.”

—“We’ll change the location. If too much time passes after the second dose... the effectiveness of the third... declines.”

Huff, huff.

He was still out of breath. Was he in the middle of intense exercise? Somehow, through the phone, Siron swore he could smell that damp, salty musk of sweat.

—“So, Siron.”

“Yes?”

—“It’s probably best if we do the third injection at a hotel.”

Siron couldn’t answer right away.

Because, quite unexpectedly, heat had bloomed in his lower abdomen—and his hole was twitching, obscenely eager.

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