L*st and Death

Lewis was riding Bus 59. It was the line that ran from Linhart, where he lived, through Riverland—where Curry King was—out to Starwalk, on the outskirts of Baggers City. As the bus passed a corridor-like road flanked on both sides by rows of palm trees and entered a tunnel, the windows, which had been filled with scenery, now reflected the narrow aisle, lined with seats and people.

Lewis leaned in close to the window. The tinted, mirror-like glass reflected his own face.

Am I immortal or something?

He pushed his sunglasses up onto his head to get a better look at his reflection. His face was speckled with scabs and mottled in deep bruises, but it wasn’t a complete wreck. The abrasions from when he snapped the cable ties were starting to regrow a thin layer of skin, and even his nose—which had been broken so badly the bone was exposed—had already healed to the point that the bone had fused and new tissue had begun to form. The injuries had been serious enough to need dozens of stitches at a hospital, yet the flesh had filled in naturally.

In just four days, his features were clear enough to recognize again. Lewis stared at his healing face, gripped by a strange sensation. It was like becoming one of those superheroes in movies who recover from fatal injuries in a flash.

Just as he was focused on the reflection in the window, Lewis suddenly felt people’s stares. The passengers around him were all openly staring at him. He must’ve stood out, with his face covered in such striking bruises.

Feeling awkward, Lewis lowered his sunglasses back over his eyes and crossed his arms, pretending to be asleep.

"Isn't that Rian?"

"Who's Rian?"

"The soldier from Return to Bunker. The one who played the gay guy in Season 2."

A while later, two women sitting across from Lewis began chatting. They spoke in hushed voices, barely audible, but Lewis, whose senses had sharpened, could hear every word clearly.

Feigning sleep, Lewis let his head loll to the side and rested it against the window, his cheek pressed to the glass. To help them feel comfortable gossiping and staring as much as they liked, he even parted his lips and began to snore faintly.

"Ah, that actor? I thought he was dead. I heard he died."

"...Wasn’t it brain death?"

"The news said he donated his organs."

"Then maybe it’s just someone who looks like him?"

"Yeah. He does look like him, but the bone structure seems different."

They were remembering Norman, the character Lewis had played in the Return to Bunker series. But their memories were slightly off. The character’s name wasn’t Rian—it was Norman Anderson. The actor who played Norman Anderson was Lewis McCarthy. And contrary to the rumors that had spread, he was still alive.

In the past, he might’ve been pleased to know someone still remembered his performance. But not anymore. The burning hunger he once had for acting had cooled, like a flame snuffed out by a bitter wind. What filled Lewis’s mind now was only that man from Curry King—Yoon Siron. Thanks to Anna, who’d been going to Curry King every morning to clean up the mess on his behalf, Lewis had finally learned his name: Yoon Siron. And for the first time in nearly two months since the incident, Lewis stepped outside in a lucid state of mind.

He had prepared for today’s outing with resolve. In his pocket, he carried a note with a phone number for a designated guardian to take charge if he collapsed, and a tranquilizer gun ready to be used on himself at the first sign of rut symptoms.

The bus emerged from the tunnel, and sunlight blazed through the window. Without sunglasses, the glare would’ve been blinding. Ever since becoming an alpha, everything had felt more intense. It was like putting on glasses for the first time—his vision became sharper, and he could sense frequencies he never noticed before. Every sound split into layers, delicate and clear. This new awareness opened an unfamiliar horizon for Lewis.

Ugh, that stinks.

He grimaced at a stench that hit his nose. While the bus was stopped at an intersection, a foul scent wafted in from outside. Lewis glanced out and quickly pinpointed the source: a faint pheromone emitted by a man in the adjacent lane.

The man looked to be in his thirties, Black, sitting in a flashy two-row convertible painted green-yellow. Dressed head-to-toe in luxury brands, he was large enough that you could guess his towering height even while he sat.

He was the sixth alpha Lewis had scented while crossing Baggers City from west to east. He’d been leaning out the window, straining to detect any trace of Yoon Siron’s pheromones, but had only picked up alphas instead.

Six in one hour, just walking down the street. Who knew how many more were out there in this city?

Are there really that many young men with brain damage?

According to NewLife Clinic’s pamphlet, alphas were created through a genetic therapy that regenerated damaged brain tissue by altering cerebral structures. The ideal subjects were young male patients with severe brain trauma. The success rate was highest in the mid-twenties, when the frontal lobe was still maturing, and decreased significantly afterward. So to become an alpha, one had to be a young man and suffer severe brain damage.

Put that together with the volatility of youth and the ruthless instincts of an alpha, and you had walking time bombs like Lewis. It was no mystery that Baggers City’s soaring crime rate had something to do with them.

All alphas gave off that same hostile scent unique to their kind. If you could call it a scent at all—it stirred something unfamiliar deep in the body. Their pheromones were all repugnant, but each had a distinctive signature, making it easy for Lewis to tell them apart.

The Black man in the convertible reeked faintly of burning plastic wrapped around rotting meat. The urologist smelled like damp soil and butchered flesh. The East Asian alpha smelled like burning rubber and chemicals.

But Yoon Siron—he was different. His scent was a heady blend of cherry, apple, vanilla sweetness, and the tang of blood and animal musk, like meat fresh from slaughter. It aroused something visceral. Just thinking about the man made Lewis want to sink his teeth into his lips and flesh, devour him like a feast rich in taste and aroma.

I bet he tastes amazing.

Licking his lips like a carnivore addicted to raw meat, Lewis mulled over what Yoon Siron really was.

Is he really an alpha’s mate?

But Yoon Siron was a man. Not a reproductive target. Still, Lewis couldn’t shake the certainty that Siron was his mate—that they were the same subspecies.

Suddenly, this city felt like a wild jungle overrun by predators. The urologist, that grim-faced East Asian alpha—they knew what Siron was. And it wasn’t just them. There were far too many alphas roaming wild in this place.

Overcome by a grim mood, Lewis opened H-Pay on his phone. It was a plain blue icon on the home screen, one that wouldn’t draw attention. But he kept it hidden like a teenager stashing porn. Ever since the rut disaster, he avoided talking to Anna about anything alpha-related.

The “H-Pay” app had come via a disposable link from a dealer named H. It wasn’t from any official app store. After launching it and going through a simple verification on a specific browser, Lewis gained access to the community: Hybris.

An online community for Alphas

Welcome to HYBRIS.

Tapping the menu icon in the top-right corner revealed options labeled only with Roman numerals: I, II, III. Users with low rank could only access menu I.

Medical Support

We provide personalized medical care to help alpha-type individuals live healthier, more vibrant daily lives and adapt to society. Our medical staff fully understands the challenges faced by individuals with the trait and will be your reliable partner as you return safely to daily life.

※ For detailed information on medical support, feel free to contact us via chat. A professional counselor will assist you in real time.

Reading the notice in the center of the screen, Lewis wrinkled his nose, forgetting the wound on his bridge.

“Medical support? What the hell does that mean?”

It sounded flashy—helping return to daily life—but there were no details about what kind of support alphas actually got.

“Do they manage ruts or something?”

But remembering how NewLife Clinic had shoved him into a pit and abandoned him during his first rut made him doubt anything this community offered. Still, it looked like you had to receive some kind of medical service to level up in Hybris and unlock the other menus.

At the bottom of the screen, a wallet icon and a chat icon were displayed side by side. Tapping the wallet icon opened a payment page for purchasing a medical pass. The price format was unusual.

Payment amount: 0.11111111 DIBC

• Your DeepCoin Wallet

• 9AsRCGDKwdlrCkjdDXHzzQ9C

Lewis scrunched up his face in distaste.

“What the hell is this? Some alien language?”

DIBC? It wasn’t dollars. It wasn’t euros. He had no idea what kind of currency that was—if it even was a currency. And what the hell was a DeepCoin wallet, and what did those strange letters mean?

Feeling as helpless as a student staring down a complex math problem, Lewis eventually gave up and started tapping randomly through the menus. But only menu I would open.

“Ugh, this is so annoying.”

Frustrated, Lewis closed the browser.

He didn’t want to make friends with other alphas. He just wanted information. He wanted to know if anyone else had ever smelled pheromones like Yoon Siron’s—ones that overwhelmed and excited you. If no one had, he had to claim him before someone else discovered it.

But he couldn’t shake the feeling about the urologist and the East Asian alpha. They were unsettling.

Lewis hated violence. And yet he found himself thinking about the gun safe hidden in the wall of Anna’s bedroom closet. The handgun. The hunting rifle.

Was it the war drama he’d filmed for too long, or had becoming an alpha warped his brain? Either way, the fact that he could calmly imagine eliminating them left him a little chilled.

Murder’s a bit much. It’d be easier to just make Yoon Siron fall for me.

By then, the bus was crossing the bridge over the Nathan River. Lewis inhaled deeply, trying to catch a trace of Siron’s scent on the wind.

If he saw him again, he wanted to cover up that awful first impression with something more romantic. Like he’d known Yoon Siron for years. Lewis felt hope and optimism about their future.

We’ll start with our first date. Our first kiss. Gently, step by step.

It never once occurred to Lewis that Yoon Siron might be terrified of him. He was caught in a giddy kind of happiness.

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