L*st and Death

“Am I out of my mind?”

Siron’s face flushed scarlet as a sudden surge of arousal hit him out of nowhere. He reflexively clenched his anus and turned his head, gripping the phone with both hands as he let out a long sigh. The silence that followed bordered on rude.

“The location... haha, it’s a bit unexpected.”

—Unexpected?

Johnson asked, his voice weighted like he was dragging something heavy up from deep within.

“...It’s expensive.”

—You can bill the pharmaceutical company.

Charging hotel fees to a drug company? Siron was certain Johnson was making an outrageous lie to seduce him. Worried his rising emotions might show, Siron forced his voice calm.

“How about a café instead?”

—Hmm, it’s unhygienic, and to others, it might look like we’re doing drugs.

“Well... that’s true.”

—I think we should meet at 5:30 PM tomorrow.

“That late?”

—I’ve been busy with several appointments this week. But I’ll come pick you up where you are.

Was it just because there wouldn’t be another meeting after the third dose that Johnson seemed so eager to set this up? Siron sensed he was being pushed into the meeting.

It could just be a clinical trial follow-up... but what if it wasn’t? If Johnson was interested in him?

The fact that the meeting was at a hotel... the time being 5:30 PM... everything nagged at him. A vivid picture formed in Siron’s head of what might unfold when they met.

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“Then shall we grab a quick dinner?”

But Johnson wouldn’t take him to a simple fast food place. The reserved location would be a French restaurant—one where they could take two whole hours to leisurely dine and get to know each other. Intoxicated by the mood, growing feelings between them, the two men would head to the hotel afterward for the third dose, but by that point, the injection would be the least of their concerns.

Seated across a narrow coffee table, they would then move to the bedroom under the pretext of checking Siron’s condition post-dose. Lying comfortably on the bed, Siron would feel his body heat up under Johnson’s gaze, which caressed him like a tongue.

"You’ve got a fever."

"It’s a bit warm. Haha."

"Shall I check your temperature? With my lips..."

And finally, unable to hold back any longer, Johnson—overwhelmed by Siron’s beauty—would lean in slowly for a kiss.

Siron swallowed hard. He wasn’t prepared for things to progress like that, nor did he have the room in his life to entertain it... but he didn’t want to avoid Johnson either. He answered in a blank space of not even knowing what he really wanted.

“...Alright.”

The moment Siron gave his consent, a massive splash echoed through the receiver, as if something enormous had dropped into water. Countless droplets flew into the air and rained down again, followed by the sound of waves rippling outward, piercing clearly into Siron’s ears.

Then Johnson exhaled, a long, satisfied breath, followed by the sound of hands brushing together—clap, clap.

—Good. Please email me the pickup location.

What the hell was that sound? It was like someone—or something huge—being thrown into water.

Siron pressed his ear tightly to the receiver, trying to identify it, but the noise had already faded. Now all that remained were gentle waves lapping against the side of a boat, flute-like insect chirps, and a breeze rustling through.

What did he throw into the swamp?

A grim sense of dread settled on Siron, like he himself had been tossed into the dark, deep waters of the Secreta swamp. Maybe it was growing up in the vast, wild United States, where he’d heard of countless murder cases involving corpses abandoned in remote areas—but Johnson’s words didn’t feel innocent. Not here. Not in Baggers City, the crime capital of the country.

—Mr. Yoon?

“...Yes? Right. I’ll do that.”

Snapping out of it, Siron hurriedly asked,

“What was that noise just now? It was really loud... Are you okay?”

—Ah, sorry about that during the call.

Johnson chuckled, a low, whispering laugh that tickled Siron’s ear and tugged at his nerves.

—It was a submersible drone.

“A... submersible drone?”

—I need it for aquatic plant sampling.

A urologist collecting aquatic plant samples?

The unexpected answer lifted Siron’s tone slightly.

“Why are you sampling?”

—Well, actually, I moonlight as an environmental researcher.

“Environmental researcher?”

—I only play a supporting role, but I study changes in microorganisms and organic matter in water. I suppose it’d be a boring topic for someone not interested.

“No, not at all! It’s interesting. Tell me more tomorrow.”

Johnson laughed again.

That laugh tickled Siron’s ears, lifted his mood, and scattered his anxieties.

—Alright then. See you tomorrow, Mr. Yoon.

The call ended. It took several seconds before Siron could finally exhale a deep breath.

So that’s why Johnson made regular trips to Secreta—because he was an environmental researcher studying the ecosystem. Siron felt guilty for doubting him, even for a moment.

Really, what are the odds of meeting a serial killer who dumps bodies in swamps in real life?

“I’ve watched too many crime films...”

He’s a noble man, prioritizing environmental studies over his main job. And I doubted someone like that? Yoon Siron, you idiot. You’re unbelievably reckless.

Feeling ashamed, Siron imagined one day—when they were closer—confessing to Johnson how he’d been suspicious, hoping he’d find it funny and tease him a little.

He bit his lip, suppressing a laugh, and finally walked away from the reception.

---

“An environmental researcher... I like it.”

Isaac found the new title rather appealing. He’d never once cared about the scientific study of the environment, but thanks to the seamless lie that had spilled from his lips, he now lived a life he’d never imagined.

“I study changes in microorganisms and organic matter in water.”

“Well, technically speaking, it’s not entirely untrue.”

Isaac smiled quietly as he stared down at the stagnant, dark water.

Just moments ago, he had thrown a man into the filthy, eerie swamp. A corpse in full rigor mortis, joints and muscles stiff.

From the perspective of studying nutrient cycles in the ecosystem, the man’s death offered considerable research value.

The warm waters of the swamp would slowly rot his body.

As gas built up inside, he would float to the surface, drawing in flies and insects eager for decaying flesh. As his skin broke down and released the gas, he’d sink again, until his body disintegrated and dissolved into the water.

Bacteria, fungi, fish, and crustaceans would feast on him, devouring even his bones in a rich banquet of death—until not a trace remained. And the swamp that absorbed him would become richer for it, reinforcing the cycle of the ecosystem.

Isaac had submerged many bodies in his quiet, private graveyard of nature. Watching the decomposition of organic humans into part of the natural world, he was, in his own way, an environmental researcher of the swamp.

“Hahaha...”

He let out a dry laugh, only to suddenly clutch his forehead and collapse from a dizzy spell.

The sky spun above, and his brain throbbed as if someone were wringing it out with both hands. The nausea was intense, like he'd just bitten into gall. The urge to vomit surged.

Last year, these episodes came every few months. Now they struck every ten days without fail.

Drooling like a sick dog, Isaac wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Barely suppressing the urge to throw up, he took out a small flask from his back pocket. It barely filled half his palm but held Booker’s whiskey with an alcohol content over 60%.

He downed it in one go, like a man dying of thirst, then stared blankly at the foggy swamp with bloodshot eyes.

“Feels like I’ve already got a death date set.”

He wasn’t afraid of death. The void after death didn’t bother him. He had always believed death was his only true rest. If he were buried alive in this swamp with the corpses of those he had killed, and if their rotting flesh filled his lungs and became part of him, it would be the most ideal death imaginable.

Thinking about death made him feel better.

Paradoxically, that ideal death gave him the strength to live.

Rising slowly, Isaac hummed to himself and walked toward the deck of the boat.

There, tied with ropes and cable ties, a man sat slumped against the hull. His face, contorted with fear, was almost purple from burst capillaries.

Isaac knelt before him on one knee, respectful and polite.

“Have you been waiting long?”

“Mmgh! Mmmgh!”

The man shook his head violently, blinking rapidly.

Isaac cupped the man’s swollen face with both hands and pressed his lips to the duct tape over his mouth.

“Mmm... mmm...”

The man trembled all over as he received Isaac’s kiss, frozen in terror.

He was a mercenary, formerly of Serbia’s airborne special forces. A beta, only slightly shorter than Isaac, in his mid-40s—neither too old nor too young. His rough, coarse skin bore countless white scars from surviving many battles.

He had received a contract: capture and abduct Isaac Bazelli alive by any means necessary. After a long pursuit, he had finally tracked Isaac down.

He had lain in wait at an abandoned hospital.

But his luck ran out there.

Perhaps he might have succeeded, had he not brought a bumbling teammate along. The young alpha, clearly on his first mission, was so tense he leaked faint pheromones. The beta, lacking the receptors, couldn’t sense them—but Isaac could.

Instead of fleeing when he noticed them, Isaac stayed—to find out who sent them, how much they knew, and most importantly, whether they had uncovered anything about Yoon Siron.

For two days, Isaac monitored the area within 200 meters of the motel where Siron was staying. If the men had been following him, there was a chance they’d crossed paths. And the older one might have figured out Isaac’s interest in Siron.

After finishing his kiss, Isaac asked:

“Are you ready to talk now?”

“Mmgh! Mmgh!”

The man shook his head again, trembling violently. It was a desperate plea for his life.

Enjoying the flavor of his fear, Isaac smiled and ripped the tape off in one swift motion.

“The contractor’s dead! Urgh—he was already dead! What more could you possibly get from a dead man?!”

Isaac had tortured and killed every woman who came looking for him. As for men—short or tall, old or young, handsome or hideous—it didn’t matter. He tortured them all, humiliated them, and killed them.

Even if they were alphas, it made no difference.

They were going to die anyway—he just made it more entertaining.

“I understand. It must’ve been an unavoidable kill.”

Isaac undid his belt with deliberate slowness, teasing.

“But after our first night together, I think you’ll remember more.”

The man let out a guttural, animalistic cry, terrified after witnessing what happened to his teammate. Isaac barely suppressed his laughter at the disgusting, pitiful sound.

Then he lifted the man’s massive body and slammed him down onto the deck.

Straddling his waist, Isaac looped his belt around the man’s neck and yanked it tight like reins.

With a masklike face, showing no emotion, Isaac leaned over him.

“Bite down. If you scream, I just... can’t help myself.”

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