“You think I’m lucky? Hah. That’s a first.”
Siron had often been told he was cursed with bad luck, but never that he was fortunate. Besides, knowing the trial had failed, it was hard to feel genuinely pleased about being the only one out of twenty participants to show results.
Looking worried, Siron asked seriously:
“The sponsor was Skone Pharmaceuticals, right? I heard drug development costs a fortune. With results like this, they’re probably taking a huge loss. I even thought the $3,000 compensation was a bit too generous.”
“Hah. Too much?”
“Yes. Usually, even with almost a week of hospitalization, they rarely pay over two grand. And they take blood more than ten times a day. Compared to that, $3,000 is kind of... too much. I almost felt bad for the company.”
Johnson, who had been silently watching Siron with those deeply shadowed eyes, suddenly let out a sharp, piercing laugh — the kind that feels like stepping on a thumbtack out of nowhere, making your heart jolt.
“You’re seriously worried about the company’s finances now?”
Caught off guard by the unexpected sarcasm, Siron blinked dumbly.
“...What?”
Johnson leaned in across the table.
“If it were me, I wouldn’t have been satisfied with just three grand. Doesn’t it occur to you that maybe you’re worrying about the wrong things?”
Was he trying to mess with him? Or scold him?
Siron couldn’t tell how to interpret Johnson’s rude tone — as if he were someone who’d sold his body cheap. The coldness in his voice made Siron shrink, and yet a hot wave of anger rushed up like he’d been slapped. But just as he opened his mouth to reply, the waiter returned with the appetizer.
It was a delicate dish — roasted white fish soaked in sauce, topped with caviar — elegant, bite-sized, extravagant. Even after the waiter left, Siron didn’t move to eat. This sudden shift in tone demanded some kind of explanation.
Or maybe not. He gave up on it quickly.
Siron didn’t want to grow emotionally close to Johnson. He decided to just do what he came for: eat the expensive meal, get his injection, report any side effects, and then leave the hotel without looking back. From then on, their contact would be strictly professional, through email. He didn’t want to keep trying to figure out a man as unreadable as this.
Still, pissed off or not, some things needed to be said.
Siron scooped the whole appetizer into his large spoon and shoved it all into his mouth at once. Barely chewing, he swallowed hard and said coolly but politely:
“Three thousand dollars might not seem like much to you, but for someone like me — someone who desperately needed it — it meant a lot.”
He stared at Johnson, giving him a chance to apologize. But Johnson only looked back coldly, showing no signs of remorse.
Instead, he did something unexpected.
He gently placed his hand over Siron’s, which was clenched into the tablecloth. Despite Siron’s hand not being small, it was completely engulfed by Johnson’s. The warmth in his palm contrasted so jarringly with his cold gaze that Siron’s heart jumped.
Avoiding his cryptic eyes, Siron looked away.
What the hell is this nerve-wracking turn of events?
Johnson was undoubtedly a strange man. Siron had only seen glimpses of his suspicious side, but he already knew he wasn’t someone to trust. Even so, he couldn’t seem to pull away from the hand that felt like a trap.
“L’univers des sens — that’s the name of this restaurant. It means ‘the world of senses,’ or ‘the universe of sensation.’”
Johnson lightly brushed the back of Siron’s hand. His rough, calloused fingertips traced slowly between the bones, grazing the skin in a way that made Siron shudder with a strange ticklishness.
Then, in a hushed, unreadable voice, Johnson asked a question that felt more like a riddle than anything else.
“What do you think it would be like... to live in a world where your senses are expanded?”
Siron still hadn’t forgiven him. But something told him this wasn’t just an attempt to change the subject. He replied cautiously:
“I don’t get what you’re asking.”
The sarcasm faded from Johnson’s expression.
His hand slid further over Siron’s, thumb caressing the center of his palm — sensitive, nerve-laced territory. Siron couldn’t help feeling a flash of arousal, mixed with frustration.
“I mean things like... seeing ghosts, reading other people’s thoughts... or even smelling things humans normally can’t — like pheromones. What would it be like to live with that kind of... impossible sensitivity?”
Johnson’s thumb traced the dip in Siron’s palm, and a sharp ache bloomed in his lower stomach. Goosebumps rose down his spine.
He didn’t want to be stirred up by something this stupid. He tried to stay cold.
“...I guess life would be more interesting.”
“You don’t think it would be harder?”
Siron shot back flatly:
“What choice would I have? I’d just adapt, like always.”
Johnson inhaled slowly and leaned back into his chair. His broad shoulders, his solid chest — they rose and fell with deep breaths like the swell of a fortress coming to life. The sight gave Siron an odd, stinging sensation — like tiny thorns were scraping against his skin.
Was it his breath? His energy? Siron had a ridiculous thought — that Johnson’s very presence was making him overly sensitive.
“...True enough.”
Johnson stared at him, then smiled clearly.
“All living beings have adaptive mechanisms. Even single-celled organisms maintain homeostasis for survival. I guess I was worrying for nothing.”
Siron still didn’t understand what the hell he was talking about. He couldn’t even guess what kind of ‘worry’ Johnson meant.
“What were you worrying about?”
But Johnson only smiled faintly and said nothing.
Their conversation was interrupted as the third course arrived. The sting on Siron’s skin faded, but the restaurant’s excessive air conditioning now felt like it was slicing into his bones.
Wait... is this ‘expanded sensory world’ thing just a metaphor for sex?
Siron glanced at the nude painting of a woman hanging behind Johnson. The restaurant’s overt sensuality suddenly felt a lot more pointed. Johnson’s intentions were becoming suspiciously clear.
It sounded like he was talking about expanding Siron’s senses through physical contact. About making his body feel things — like some skilled lover, coaxing pleasure with clean hands in a sterile environment.
Siron flinched at his own obscene imagination and yanked his hand from Johnson’s, hiding it under the table.
To shake off the dirty thoughts, he blurted out a change of subject.
“Y-You speak French too?”
It was random, but sounded natural enough. Johnson finally began eating and replied:
“To some extent. I dealt with French speakers now and then.”
“When?”
“When?”
“As a doctor, as a soldier, or as a researcher — which one?”
“Ah, that.”
Johnson chuckled and relaxed a bit.
“Back when I was in the military. We worked with people of many nationalities.”
“So you were like... elite military?”
“Elite military? That’s an... interesting term.”
With a low laugh, he continued:
“I was in a recon unit for special missions. We were based mainly in Belzoras, but we went wherever we needed to for hostage rescue.”
“So you traveled a lot. And you’re good with languages.”
So am I, Siron almost said — but held it back.
His past was no less colorful than Johnson’s. He’d debuted at nineteen, became a lead actor in just a few projects, and had traveled internationally for fan meetings when his dramas hit overseas popularity.
He hadn’t had much time to study languages seriously, but he’d picked up beginner-level Japanese and Chinese. Now, though, it wasn’t exactly something he could boast about — even if he wanted to. LanguageResources
“Have you ever been to Korea?”
“No. I’ve never been. ...You’re Korean, right?”
“Yeah. Third-generation Korean-American.”
“What brought your grandparents to a place like this?”
“My grandma couldn’t wake up to alarm clocks. She figured gunshots might be more effective.”
They both burst out laughing, finding humor in the infamy of Baggers City.
“Kidding. My parents and siblings are in Los Angeles. I’m the only one who ended up... drifting into a city where I don’t know a single soul.”
The mention of family surprised even Siron. He fell silent, blinking slowly, lips pressed tight. Then, suddenly remembering something, his eyes widened and he quickly asked:
“What about you, Johnson? What made you open a urology clinic in a city like this?”
“Hm...”
Setting down his fork and knife, Johnson went quiet for a moment, then spoke with a faint smile.
“I guess... I liked everything this city had to offer.”
“Baggers City?”
“Let’s just say I was fascinated by disaster. Hurricanes, tornadoes, floods, wildfires... This place is hell on Earth — it’s got every natural disaster imaginable.”
“Hmm. Makes sense, I guess. Erectile dysfunction is practically a natural disaster in itself.”
Siron made a face like he’d heard a terrible joke — then countered with self-deprecating humor of his own.
Must be the environmental researcher in him. Weird-ass taste.
Even as Siron worried about Johnson’s eccentricities, the conversation flowed on. They talked about the city’s suffocating heat, the rich biodiversity of the Secreta wetlands, and their favorite books and films.
Johnson liked Nietzsche, dystopian literature, Faust, Crime and Punishment — works about ethical conflict and social anxiety. Once the conversation turned to literature, Siron mostly stayed quiet. But he didn’t mind. He found himself leaning forward, listening intently, eyes fixed on Johnson — unknowingly drawn to the man himself.
“Let’s move.”
Here it comes. Siron almost closed his eyes in resignation.
He took a deep breath and nodded awkwardly.
“Alright. Let’s go get that shot.”
Goddamn it. Since when did ‘getting a shot’ sound this dirty?
He hadn’t felt this kind of sexual tension in so long — it was hard to keep his cool.
Outside was hot and humid, in contrast to the cool interior. Romantic salsa music played through speakers lining the palm-tree path connecting the beach to the resort. Nearby Cuban-style open-air pubs were packed with people drinking cold beer and snacking. Compared to the secretive, seductive vibe of the French restaurant, the tropical air felt like a relief.
Siron followed a few steps behind Johnson, confused. The path they were on wasn’t leading to the resort — Johnson was veering toward the back entrance. He turned to Siron and gestured.
“I need to grab the injection from the car. Let’s walk.”
“Oh, your bag’s in the car? Sure.”
The back gate, mainly used for deliveries, was dimly lit. Just two solar-powered lights stood on either side.
As they passed into the shadows of the gate, Johnson suddenly moved in close and grabbed Siron tightly by the waist.
“Wh-What are you—?!”
Startled, Siron tried to turn, but Johnson pushed him hard.
“J-Johnson?!”
Siron instinctively tried to resist, pushing back with the balls of his feet — but like a compact car caught under a reversing dump truck, he was powerless against the force.
“Why — what are you doing?!”
Siron’s voice trembled with rising fear, but no answer came.
Johnson didn’t stop even after dragging him off the road into the overgrown brush. He hooked a leg behind Siron’s and deliberately knocked him over, crouching with him like an animal diving into cover. Grabbing Siron’s wrist with a claw-like hand, he yanked him deeper into the bushes.
Siron’s resistance was meaningless against Johnson’s overwhelming strength. Wet branches lashed his face, gravel cut into him like thorns. He couldn’t even breathe, his panic crashing over him like wave after wave.
Finally, Johnson stopped. He climbed on top of Siron’s frozen, terrified body and pressed a hand against his neck.
“Quiet.”
“P-Please... don’t—”
“Shut it. You make a sound, I’ll knock you out.”
“Hhh... Wh-Why are you—?”
“Quiet.”
But Siron couldn’t calm down. His heart thundered. His limbs curled with terror. His tongue was frozen like cement. Whimpering sobs leaked from his throat like steam through a crack.
“...Fuck.”
Johnson sighed low and pulled his weight off Siron.
It wasn’t a good sign, but Siron’s panicking brain took it as a relief — like the danger had passed. A dumb mistake.
Johnson placed both hands on Siron’s neck, under his ears, and pressed hard.
His carotid arteries were compressed for several seconds — a wave of vertigo and blinding pain shot through his skull. As if reconsidering, Johnson loosened his grip — only to press harder the second time.
Fight him! Get up! Siron’s brain screamed — but his body, paralyzed by fear, only trembled helplessly.
His breaths turned shallow, uneven. And then... his consciousness began to fade.
As darkness swallowed his vision, he barely registered Johnson rising. The rustling of grass. Footsteps fading into the distance.
And then, in the far-off silence —
Tak, tak.
A dull, metallic thud rattled the air. The sound of a silenced pistol firing.
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