L*st and Death

The moment they stepped into Yoon Siron’s apartment, the first thing that caught both Lewis and Baek Kyung’s eyes was a black-and-white photo hanging on the wall.

Yoon Siron was looking straight into the camera lens with a faint smile. The image resembled a headshot taken by a professional—like one submitted to a talent agency.

Both men forgot how narrow the entryway was as they stared at Siron’s face greeting them. That hauntingly beautiful face left them speechless, stunned into silence.

Only after shaking off the photograph’s strange pull did Baek Kyung let out a long sigh and murmur to himself.

“He actually brought this with him...”

He started to leave the entryway but changed his mind, kicked off his shoes, and stepped into the living room.

Lewis, slower to snap out of the photo’s spell, came to his senses when he heard the loud rustling of Baek Kyung rummaging through the kitchen trash.

Siron’s apartment was a one-bedroom unit with a cramped living room—so small the space between the worn two-seater sofa and the wall-mounted TV was barely a meter wide.

Next to the TV stood a cheap plywood bookshelf. On it were awkward drawings of Yoon Siron and various fan-made items incorporating his photos, neatly arranged.

It looked like a collection of gifts sent with love by people who adored him.

“He probably wasn’t just some ordinary curry delivery guy.”

At Lewis’s musing, Baek Kyung answered without even glancing away from the trash bin.

“He was an actor.”

Lewis’s eyes widened in surprise.

“An actor?”

He mentally flipped through all the Asian actors who’d left an impression on him in movies and dramas, but no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t recall ever seeing Yoon Siron.

“What was he in?”

“Even if I told you, you wouldn’t know.”

“That’s fine. I’ll look it up myself.”

Baek Kyung gave him a sharp look, then sighed and said,

“He was an actor in Korea.”

An actor in Korea. It wasn’t a country Lewis was familiar with, but that very unfamiliarity only heightened his curiosity. He wanted to know how someone [N O V E L I G H T] like Siron had transformed flat lines of dialogue into a living, breathing performance.

Lewis turned his gaze to the TV. The wall-mounted smart TV seemed oversized for the tiny room—sitting on the couch would flood your vision with the screen.

He turned it on and browsed through the streaming services Siron subscribed to. As expected, Siron had access to multiple platforms for online content.

Lewis blushed when he saw that his own series, Return to Bunker, was saved under Siron’s “My List” and “Watch History.” But more than embarrassment, a painful stab ran through him.

Yoon Siron—he was living a hard, grounded life, far removed from the past.

And yet somehow, despite time and distance, Lewis felt that their lives mirrored each other.

“What the hell are you doing?”

Baek Kyung glared at Lewis from the fridge.

“You said Bébé was an actor. I figured I’d get a sense of his tastes in movies and dramas...”

Lewis offered the excuse with shameless ease, knowing it didn’t sound convincing.

“Right. Like you'd understand any of it. Just stay out of my way.”

Shaking his head with clear disdain, Baek Kyung disappeared into the bedroom.

Lewis scanned the seemingly endless list of films and dramas Siron had watched. He wanted to connect with Siron more deeply—something longer lasting—through their shared language of acting.

He squeezed himself into the tight space between the sofa and bookshelf, sat down, and started pulling out the gift boxes from Siron’s fans, laying them out one by one on the sofa.

Inside were handwritten letters, fan art of Siron, and cute trinkets printed with his photo. On a lower shelf sat a trophy—lightly coated with a layer of dust, like it hadn’t been touched in a long time.

From the very bottom of the bookshelf, he pulled out a large paper box. Inside were multiple scriptbooks, bound in various thicknesses.

“He must’ve played leads.”

The lines for the character he assumed Siron played were filled with dense handwritten notes. So many lines, so many scenes—he must’ve worked hard.

Lewis hesitated a moment, then pressed his face to the worn pages and breathed deeply. All he got was the musty scent of old paper—no pheromones.

What had triggered his mutation?

But more than that, Lewis was haunted by one question: Why had Yoon Siron, once a rising actor, left everything behind to live in America as a deliveryman?

The mystery of Siron’s past consumed him.

He skimmed through the cryptic notes scribbled on the scripts—sometimes encountering long messages in English:

“Need to prep skin before the close-up. Do a facial pack the night before.”

“Keep tripping over this line. Can I put my tongue on a diet? High energy is good, but the delivery needs to stay calm.”

“Deliver this line more forcefully. Let tears well up, but don’t cry.”

“Kim Yoonseok, who works brutal jobs day and night to pay off debt... Will audiences really believe a character like him played with this refined-looking face? You could walk down Gangnam Station and get fifty casting cards in an hour. Is smudging charcoal on his face really enough to show his hardship?”

Lewis smirked as he read through Siron’s notes—it felt like reading a secret diary. Siron’s playful, impulsive voice jumped out at him.

He stacked the scriptbooks on his knees, searching for more English notes. Just as he opened the most heavily used script and flipped through it, something fluttered out and fell to the floor.

A photo, no larger than his palm.

It had been torn to pieces, then messily taped back together.

Lewis picked it up, and the blood in his veins turned to ice.

In the picture were a younger Yoon Siron and Baek Kyung.

Baek Kyung held the camera, staring at Siron through a mirror with a crooked gaze. Siron wasn’t looking at the mirror, but at Baek Kyung’s reflection—wary and guarded. Their lines of sight ultimately met in each other.

There was clearly a deep story between them.

But what shook Lewis wasn’t the photo itself—it was its condition. Siron had ripped it up but hadn’t thrown it away. He’d taped it back together and hidden it inside a scriptbook he never reopened.

What lingered in that photo wasn’t just the past, but regret.

And that regret... Lewis couldn’t stand it.

After a brief hesitation, he slid the photo into his pocket. He didn’t want Baek Kyung seeing even a trace of that lingering attachment.

“Where the fuck did this bastard run off to!”

Baek Kyung’s shout rang from the bedroom.

He came storming out, face twisted in frustration.

“Nothing in there?”

Lewis calmly replied while putting the scriptbooks back in the box.

“Not really. He didn’t take everything though, so I’d guess... he’s planning to come back.”

Baek Kyung tugged at his already disheveled hair and groaned.

“You find anything over there?”

“Just scriptbooks, trophies, and fan gifts.”

“He had the presence of mind to pack that much?”

Baek Kyung looked bitterly at the items on the shelf, then collapsed onto the couch, burying his head in his knees.

“This is hopeless. Where the hell do I even start looking?”

After a long silence, he suddenly snapped his head up.

“Taxi.”

“Taxi?”

“Knowing Siron, there's no way he took a bus with heavy luggage. He’d rather go into debt to take a cab.”

“The main road’s right outside—he wouldn’t have walked far.”

Baek Kyung’s eyes sharpened.

“Think the building has CCTV?”

Lewis recalled the red blinking light above the building entrance.

If they could get footage of the street, they might find where Siron went. He stood up immediately.

Fortunately, the CCTV by the entrance was working, recording both directions of the road. The building manager, uninterested in tenants’ affairs, reluctantly agreed to show the footage when Lewis claimed they were looking for a thief.

Siron had entered the building on foot around 9 a.m. yesterday. Two hours later, he left pulling a suitcase. Because the elevator was broken, he’d had to drag it down the stairs, stopping at the front steps to rest, gagging from exertion.

Then he caught a passing yellow cab and vanished.

The video quality wasn’t perfect, but the license plate was legible.

“XBB-7533. Super Yellow Taxi.”

Lewis noted the number and company name in his phone.

“At this point we don’t even need Anna. Just go to the taxi company and find out where he was dropped off.”

Lewis sounded relieved, but Baek Kyung kept staring at the screen.

“That car’s weird. Rewind a bit.”

“That’s enough. I’m not showing you more. You guys don’t even live here.”

Afraid of getting involved, the manager tried to kick them out. Baek Kyung shut him up with two crisp hundred-dollar bills.

When Siron entered the building, a black pickup truck had slowly passed by.

Two hours later, the moment he left in the taxi, that same truck passed by again.

The vehicle resembled a secure transport van, with windows only in the front and solid metal panels in the back.

Replaying the footage revealed it had the same license plate both times. Despite the low resolution, they paused frame by frame, trying to make out the driver’s face.

Luckily, illegal tinting wasn’t a thing in the U.S., and a blurry face became visible through the window.

“...Isaac Bazelli?”

Baek Kyung’s face went rigid at the sight of the captured image.

More than shock or anger, his eyes were filled with something worse—fear.

Lewis realized, then, that something was very, very wrong.

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