L*st and Death

“Hey!”

The man pulling the steel door sideways turned at Baek Kyung’s shout.

“You! You’re the owner of Curry King, aren’t you?”

Ikbal flinched in surprise at the sight of the large, predatory-looking man charging toward him, instinctively stepping back. The man’s eyes gleamed with such ferocity, as if he’d swing his fist the moment Ikbal admitted to owning Curry King. But he had no reason to be scared. A police officer was standing beside him.

“That’s right. Why?”

“I’m the one who called your cell. Remember? The second I mentioned looking for Yoon Siron, you blocked me.”

Irritation surged across Ikbal’s face. He’d had more than enough of people tracking down his number and calling him out of nowhere just to ask about Siron’s whereabouts.

Nothing had gone right for Ikbal in the past four days. The store had been hit by robbers and looters who left not even a single spoon behind. And after that night, Siron stopped answering his calls.

He couldn’t get Siron’s final phone call out of his mind. The guy who always cracked jokes so cheerfully had suddenly spoken with such serious gratitude — like it was a last goodbye before disappearing somewhere for good. It had left Ikbal with a sinking feeling in his gut.

On top of that, Anna McCarthy had been trailing him for days, under the pretense of helping him deal with the robbery. Every morning she picked him up and ran unsolicited errands until noon. She kept asking questions about Siron but shared nothing in return, and her excessive friendliness rubbed Ikbal the wrong way.

He’d finally concluded that Anna’s crazy younger brother must’ve done something terrible to traumatize Siron. The guy was probably Siron’s psycho stalker — some obsessive fan. But even so, Ikbal couldn’t bring himself to ask Anna directly what had happened that night. He was too afraid to face the truth.

So the last thing he needed was another obsessed fan calling his phone to ask about Yoon Siron.

Especially not a guy like this. Despite wearing what looked like an expensive suit, he was a mess — like he’d been sleeping rough for days. His jaw was covered in scruffy stubble, his skin slicked with sweat. And... his face was disturbingly familiar. Ikbal was sure this was the same man who’d come by several times pretending to be a customer, clearly stalking Siron.

Scowling, Ikbal snapped at Baek Kyung with biting sarcasm.

“No one like that here. Get lost.”

He waved his hand like he was shooing out a problem customer. But Baek Kyung didn’t budge. He sucked in a deep breath like he was about to shout, but held back his rage with effort and spoke instead.

“Just give me his address. I just need to know he’s alive.”

Ikbal crossed his arms and stared at him like he was pathetic.

“And who the hell are you supposed to be?”

“Yoon Siron’s hyung.”

“Hah! That’s rich. I’ve heard it all now.”

Ikbal snorted and shook his head in disbelief.

“Siron doesn’t have any siblings like you. I may not know much, but I know that. And he quit this job a long time ago. If you want news on him, go look somewhere else.”

“Come on. Don’t lie. I was there the night Yoon Siron closed up.”

“...What?”

“When he got attacked — I saved him.”

Baek Kyung stepped forward, as if ready to grab Ikbal by the collar, but the woman intervened before he could.

“Is that true?”

Baek Kyung turned his eyes toward the woman who had been irritating him from the moment he spotted her. She was staring back at him with a complicated expression that was hard to define.

Wearing a sleeveless leather jacket, torn wide-leg jeans, and her blonde hair braided tightly in two thick plaits down her back, with rows of ring piercings along the curve of her ear, she looked like a boxing champion. Her face was set with a still, focused intensity, as though trying not to miss a single detail — and Baek Kyung didn’t like that.

“You were there that night? At the scene?”

“Yeah. So what?”

“Then... did you see who else was there, besides the employees?”

The woman studied Baek Kyung carefully, trying to gauge the truth. But her attitude wasn’t that of someone seeking justice for a wronged victim — it was more like someone cautiously probing how much Baek Kyung actually knew.

Baek Kyung stared her down with quiet contempt, a vague sense of hostility rising inside him.

“I saw it all. Some hulking blonde bastard was harassing Yoon Siron, and I beat him half to death.”

The woman’s face stiffened at Baek Kyung’s angry grin. Baek Kyung knew it — she was hiding something. She definitely knew what really happened that night.

*** Siron was drifting in a boat, flowing along a gentle ripple.

Through the sheer white chiffon curtains meant to block the sunlight, a fog-cloaked sky came into view. He was being carried endlessly forward, through a tunnel of trees shrouded in mist, past reeds bowed like shadows.

The place he was in was a swamp, thick with an eerie, mystical atmosphere. The air carried the faint, rotten stench of something decomposing. Siron inhaled deeply. The smell of damp soil and aquatic plants mingled with the scent of decaying animal flesh, worming its way into his nose. Normally he would’ve gagged, but for some strange reason, he didn’t mind the smell at all.

“Observing how microorganisms and organic matter transform in water... is a deeply fascinating process.”

Siron turned at the dreamlike voice behind him. He was sitting on Johnson’s lap. Johnson had his face pressed against Siron’s shoulder.

Their bodies were so closely pressed together — Siron’s back and hips tight against the man’s warm, solid frame — that he could feel both their ragged breaths.

Were we ever this intimate?

The thought vanished almost instantly. Johnson’s large, hot hand slipped under Siron’s clothes, gently caressing his lower stomach. The man’s touch was so smooth, so familiar, that it left no room for doubt. It was only natural.

“Do you see it?”

With his rough, calloused fingers, Johnson twisted one of Siron’s nipples between thumb and forefinger, while the other hand pointed toward a spot in the swamp.

There, two corpses floated atop broken branches and dead foliage. Two men with their limbs bound tightly with metal cable ties. The exposed flesh was already decomposing, unrecognizable — but Siron knew instantly who they were. Baek Kyung and the rapist.

“Decomposing bodies release all kinds of byproducts. Microorganisms and insects will flock around and feast on the fluids that seep out. Watch closely. Everyone here is enjoying the death feast.”

The whisper spread through the fog like smoke, unbearably ticklish. Siron wanted to scratch his ear. The hand that had slipped into his pants now gently wrapped around his erect penis, stroking up and down.

Johnson kissed Siron’s shoulder and slid his hand slowly beneath the perineum. The coarse skin of his fingers brushed over Siron’s clenched entrance, and every nerve focused there.

The moment Johnson’s fingertip tapped against it, Siron realized how desperately he’d been craving this exact sensation. His hungry hole knew how to take it — with a push, it opened slightly, welcoming the intrusion. Johnson’s thick thumb, about the size of Siron’s own, pressed deep into his walls. Siron moaned as his restrained desire burst out all at once.

---

“Mmm...”

Siron was pissing.

Something forceful was gushing from his urethra — powerful, almost satisfying. Feeling strangely proud of the pressure after so long, Siron sluggishly lifted his head.

He was lying in bed, still in his underwear.

He wasn’t even in a bathroom. Just lying there, wetting himself on a motel bed. Even in a dream, that was so out of character for him that it felt absurd. And yet, the warm wetness soaking his thighs and stomach felt alarmingly real. It sent a shiver through his spine.

“Fuck!”

The sleepiness vanished instantly. Siron’s face went pale with panic. He sat up in a rush — and realized his underwear was truly, thoroughly soaked.

He scrambled out of bed and yanked them down. They were drenched in thick, viscous semen. Thankfully — or not — it hadn’t been urine. It was a wet dream.

“Guess it makes sense I thought it was piss.”

He must’ve come a lot. The clinging wet fabric wrapped around his thighs was disgusting. Just like the sun rises tomorrow, nocturnal emissions came whether you were impotent or not.

“For fuck’s sake, just pick one thing to mess with me.”

His mood was already shot. He’d clearly slept for a long time, dreaming the whole night, but felt no rest. He knew it was a lewd dream, but it was all fogged over. He couldn’t recall the details, or even who’d been in it.

And on top of that, to ruin his underwear with a wet dream? Furious, he picked up the soiled underwear, ready to fling it at the wall — then sighed, realizing it was up to him to clean it anyway. He dragged himself to the bathroom.

Soaking in the cramped, yellowed tub, scrubbing himself down with a disposable shower towel, Siron was struck by a strange thought. With hands still covered in soap suds, he gently cupped his own penis. For some reason, it felt like he’d experienced an erection very recently.

He rubbed himself, imagining a cock thrusting in and out of a hole overflowing with cum — a familiar fantasy. But as expected, his cock remained utterly limp.

Just because he was impotent didn’t mean he couldn’t ejaculate. Even a soft, flesh-like organ could leak with enough stimulation.

He imagined himself draped over Johnson’s huge hands, shooting weak spurts of semen from a useless, sagging cock. The shame of it burned his face red. Johnson would probably think it looked like a lazy pig, lying in bed munching potato chips.

“Yeah. Sex can... wait for later.”

Still, Siron washed himself with more care than usual, scrubbing every corner of his body. Then he dressed in the cleanest, most respectable clothes he owned — and stepped out of the motel.

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