L*st and Death

The meeting spot with Johnson was in front of a Mexican supermarket in the Mocho-Lakka district. Located on the southern outskirts of Baggers City, Mocho-Lakka was an immigrant-heavy area with a crime rate rivaling that of Riverland. It also happened to be the neighborhood where Siron’s motel was located. Siron had deliberately chosen the busy supermarket as the rendezvous point for Johnson’s safety.

Johnson stood with his back leaning against the side door of a pitch-black pickup truck, eating olive snacks in front of the colorful supermarket. Dressed entirely in black — black shoes, black slacks, black shirt, black jacket, and even a classic black watch — he looked perfectly coordinated with his vehicle. He wasn’t wearing glasses like he usually did during clinical work, so the deep shadows under his eye sockets made it hard to tell what he was looking at.

He tilted his head up as he popped a few olives into his mouth, and his eyes met Siron’s. The moment he recognized him, he slightly raised his chin, chewing slowly — like a sheriff in a Western, calmly sizing up the newcomer walking through the saloon doors.

Not even cracking a smile after seeing me? That takes effort. I’ll give him that.

Siron gave him a mental thumbs-up and decided he needed to commit to a cool, detached concept like that too. Without even a hint of a smile, Siron looked up at him with a slight air of arrogance.

“Kept you waiting, didn’t I? Sorry about that — just how things turned out.”

The moment the words left his mouth, Siron realized he’d picked the wrong tone. A faint blush spread across his cheeks as he corrected himself.

“...I mean — sorry.”

“It’s fine. Want some?”

Johnson reached out a large hand toward Siron’s face. Between his thick, calloused thumb and forefinger — both larger than Siron’s own thumb — he delicately pinched a small olive. It was the same size as his nipples had gotten during those nights Baek Kyung had pushed his body to its limits, when even the slightest touch sent sharp pleasure shooting through him.

Siron suddenly imagined Johnson’s rough fingers toying with his nipple in exactly the same way — pressing and twisting playfully.

Face flushing bright red, lips trembling, Siron opened his mouth and sucked the olive right off Johnson’s fingers with a loud slurp.

“Ah, s-sorry...”

It was ridiculous enough to have that kind of fantasy out of nowhere, but now he’d practically sucked Johnson’s fingers dry.

“What for?” Johnson asked, licking the olive juice off his thumb and index finger. Pretending not to notice Siron’s slip-up — he was downright devious.

“It’s nothing.”

“Want another?”

“No.”

Johnson gave a small, regretful chuckle. “Alright. Let’s get going then.”

The two of them got in the truck and pulled out of the narrow supermarket lot. Johnson stared out at the road as he drove and asked:

“Have you eaten?”

“No.”

“I haven’t either. Let’s grab dinner then. I actually made a reservation at a French restaurant.”

“A French restaurant?”

“It’s a place I’ve been wanting to try.”

Siron realized that everything Johnson had planned — all of it lined up exactly with what he’d anticipated during their phone call yesterday. As he pulled his seatbelt tight, he turned his head and smirked slyly to himself.

Johnson was a skilled driver. Despite the size of the truck, he maneuvered easily through narrow streets. Though his look suited a luxury sedan with a white coat draped over his shoulders, his ride was an off-road capable, six-seater Suburban pickup. Maybe it was his work as an environmental researcher — he clearly preferred something built for action.

Come to think of it, his everyday clothes weren’t far off from tactical gear either. The man had consistent taste, that was for sure.

The truck’s interior was purely functional. The second and third row seats had been removed from the back, and in their place stood two thick poles meant for securing cargo. Heavy ropes and metal chains were wrapped around them — the ropes stained dark brown in places, like they’d been muddied. The rear windows were blocked off with solid metal panels, creating a dim, enclosed atmosphere. Scratches marred the floors, ceiling, and walls, as though the vehicle had seen some serious abuse.

Siron stared at the military-grade backpacks neatly arranged in the back seat and felt a chill run up his spine. He quietly rubbed his arm to chase off the goosebumps.

“Were you in the military?”

“Do I look like it?”

“...Weren’t you?”

“I was — for a time.”

“Where were you stationed?”

“...Belzoras.”

Belzoras — a Central American country bordering Mexico. Famous for its coffee farms, Belzoras had a crime rate as bad as Baggers City, chaotic public safety, and was a hotspot for illegal immigrants crossing into the U.S. via Hell Sota. A poor, dangerous country — that was the extent of what Siron knew about it.

“So after your discharge, you became a doctor?”

“That’s right.”

Johnson glanced at the backseat and chuckled.

“Old habits die hard, I guess. Military gear comes in handy for hauling large equipment — GIS machines, monitoring sensors, that sort of thing.”

“Ahh, so that’s why...”

Siron almost felt guilty for having doubted him again. He laughed sheepishly, flustered. Johnson smiled back without understanding why.

By then, the car had reached the coastal road. In the distance, the Blue Shell Beach Resort came into view. Just like the name suggested, the exterior was painted a soft sky blue. But the sun, now sinking into the ocean, dyed the building in warm orange light, casting a faint purple shimmer across its walls.

Siron expected the truck to pull into the main entrance, but instead it turned down a narrow two-lane road riddled with potholes. They didn’t pass a single car for several minutes. The place where Johnson stopped was a deserted lot just off the road, overgrown with shoulder-high weeds — almost like the land was trying to hide itself.

“We’ll walk from here.”

“W-Walk?”

“It’s closer to the back gate. That entrance is mainly for deliveries.”

Siron wondered why Johnson hadn’t just parked in the resort’s lot, but didn’t ask — he just followed quietly. It didn’t take long for the reason to become clear. Not far from the back entrance, there was a French restaurant.

Johnson led Siron down into the basement of the building. After passing through a stately marble entrance, they were met with dim lighting, red décor, crystal chandeliers, and ornate French sculptures.

Copies of paintings by Picasso, Matisse, Egon Schiele, and Édouard Manet — mostly nudes — lined the walls. It was a restaurant deliberately designed to be sensual, like a custom-made outfit for a date.

The restaurant, named L’univers des Sens, didn’t match the beach resort atmosphere at all. There wasn’t a single seaside decoration in sight. Surrounded by its indulgent mood, Siron took a deep breath. A rich sandalwood scent filled his nostrils.

Not a diffuser... this is high-end incense.

It made the last few years — living off canned food and instant noodles — feel like some distant dream. The scent transported him instantly back to his former life.

High-end villas overlooking the Han River. Multi-course meals just because. Bars that sold pricey whiskey and imported liquor.

He used to drink vodka tonics with lime slices — way too sophisticated for someone in their early twenties. Back then, he fancied himself more mature than his peers — brooding and cultured.

Please don’t tell me we’re splitting the bill.

Siron studied the overpriced menu seriously.

I mean, he’s the one who made the reservation, and he’s older. Surely not?

Johnson had to know he was broke — doing clinical trial gigs just to survive. Siron peeked at Johnson from behind the menu.

Their table was set far from the entrance. Siron had his back to the door; Johnson sat facing it, against the wall — a soldier’s instinct, perhaps. He liked to keep the whole room in view. When Johnson finished scanning the surroundings and met Siron’s gaze, he asked:

“Have you decided?”

“Yes.”

“Let’s order then.”

He placed an order for a full course meal centered around beef steak — no alcohol. After sipping a glass of water, he asked:

“How’s your body feeling?”

“More or less okay.”

“Are your urinary symptoms worsening?”

Siron didn’t want to talk about frequent urination in front of a sexy man at a romantic restaurant — especially one he might kiss later tonight. But he also didn’t want to miss the chance to glean any advice from a real doctor. Staring at the table, he answered quietly:

“...It changes day by day. Since last night, I’ve been peeing less. But my lower belly feels kind of sore. Could it be an enlarged prostate? I thought that only happened to men over fifty.”

“You can’t confirm anything based on symptoms alone. You’d need a digital rectal exam or an ultrasound for a proper diagnosis.”

Johnson only listed the tests — he didn’t recommend them. He’d booked a hotel and everything, so Siron half-expected him to casually suggest an exam himself. But Johnson’s attitude remained dry and clinical, like the prostate was just another organ near the bladder.

That calm detachment — like he didn’t even desire him — made Siron feel oddly safe. But at the same time, he wanted Johnson to be the one to take control. The one to push things further. He didn’t understand why he felt such opposing emotions.

“What about the other volunteers?”

Siron asked with a playful smile.

“You know. The lab rats.”

“Most of them aren’t doing well.”

Munching on the warm mini croissant that had come as an appetizer, Siron asked:

“What do you mean?”

“There’s been no improvement — not in frequent urination, not in erectile dysfunction. No change at all.”

“So the drug’s not working?”

“Exactly. At this rate, even if the clinical trial ends successfully, the drug will be scrapped as ineffective.”

“Does that mean I’m a failed trial too?”

Johnson smiled faintly at the question.

“You’re a bit different. Your blood tests show that your PSA levels dropped to normal.”

“What’s that?”

“It’s a test commonly used to detect early signs of prostate disorders. It’s not a perfect indicator, but your numbers objectively show improvement.”

It was an unexpected development. Siron hadn’t expected anything when he signed up for the trial — but the improvement in symptoms did feel good. At the same time, he worried that Skone Pharmaceuticals might be heading for bankruptcy after sinking so much money into this new drug.

“Out of the twenty participants... I’m the only one who improved?”

“That’s right.”

“That’s weird. Why only me?”

Johnson stared at him quietly, like he was analyzing and deciphering Yoon Siron himself.

“Maybe... it’s because you’re just a lucky person.”

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