L*st and Death

An invitation? Siron had no idea what Johnson meant.

“Huh? What do you mean, invitation...?”

Johnson leaned further forward, slowly closing the distance between them. As he drew near, Siron could see into his eyes. That damp, mocking gaze bore down on him, as if to toy with the fact that Siron didn’t understand.

“You walked into Johnson’s Urology Clinic in Riverland with your own two feet.”

“That’s ridiculous—”

“You laughed off all the strange signals I gave you without a second thought.”

He sent strange signals? Had he really? No way—that was complete nonsense.

And yet, somewhere deep down, Siron felt a sliver of truth in his words. Because he’d been careless. Because of his vanity. Because he’d been drawn to his charm. He had overlooked all the cold, unsettling signs Johnson had sent his way.

The suspiciously generous compensation for joining the clinical trial. A urologist with a name like “Johnson Lube”—it sounded like the setup to a dirty joke. That bizarre midnight explorer of the Secreta Marshlands. The pickup truck with bloodstained ropes and chains wrapped around the support beams. How many signs had Siron brushed off without thinking?

But even if he’d projected all the good he wanted to see onto Johnson, that didn’t mean he deserved to be a victim. Naivety could sometimes lead people into danger, sure—but Siron hadn’t asked for any of this.

“That’s bullshit! The one doing the deceiving is at fault! How is it the victim’s fault for being deceived? Who the hell willingly walks into the arms of a serial killer?!”

Siron shouted in desperation.

It was a clear case of warped logic—no different from a stalker believing a simple smile meant romantic interest. No—this was worse. A nightmare given form.

But the moment he said it, Siron regretted it. He didn’t know what kind of consequences that one word—*serial killer*—might provoke. Afraid he’d triggered something, Siron straightened up slowly, tucked his chin, and glanced up to gauge Johnson’s reaction.

“...You’re not a serial killer, right?”

“I don’t kill people for no reason.”

Johnson gave a faint, calming smile. But there was nothing reassuring about it.

He doesn’t kill people for no reason?

So if there’s a reason, he’ll do it?

Despite the humid, stifling air wrapping around him, Siron felt a bone-deep chill. Escape from this maniac seemed utterly hopeless. Even if the sky split open, it still wouldn’t be enough to get away.

Johnson looked down at Siron, who trembled like a trapped animal.

“First, you should get out of those wet clothes. Change, then come out.”

He took a key from his back pocket and unlocked the shackle around Siron’s ankle. Then he pulled something from a shelf and set it down on the dry floor.

For a moment, Siron imagined himself as the protagonist in a spy movie—knocking the kidnapper out with perfect timing and strolling out of his prison like it was nothing. But reality was different. He’d be lucky to land a hit. More likely, he’d just give Johnson an excuse to beat him to a pulp.

While Siron hesitated, Johnson gathered up the chain and left, closing the bathroom door behind him. Once alone, Siron inspected what had been left behind. Two towels that smelled like freshly washed fabric, and a long nightgown. It looked like something a mental hospital patient might wear in an old movie. Or like a burial shroud.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Siron had believed, even if the man was a kidnapper—and probably a killer—that he might still have some level of civility, maybe even a gentlemanly streak. That illusion shattered.

He wasn’t about to be some doll for Johnson’s perverse fantasies. Siron anxiously scoured the bathroom for any clue he might’ve missed—anything that could help him escape. But there were no windows. Only a small ventilation shaft and the door connected the room to the outside. The shelves were no better—towels neatly folded, fresh bars of soap, unused bottles of shampoo and body wash, and disposable washcloths.

For a brief moment, Siron imagined using the shampoo, body wash, towels, and soap to build a homemade bomb and blow the place up.

“...I’d just end up cleaner.”

Once he realized a DIY bomb wasn’t even remotely possible, he shifted tactics. Maybe a towel could be turned into a weapon. Tie several together, whip it like a rope, loop it around his neck from behind, and pull tight—cut off Johnson’s carotid artery until he passed out. That seemed a lot more feasible.

“Look at the size of him. Like hell that’s happening.”

Furious, Siron nearly yanked out his own hair—then stopped himself, thinking of scalp health. He couldn’t give up without even trying. If he wanted to survive, he had to take care of himself.

I can escape. I have to think. I have to figure something out.

But no matter what he imagined, he couldn’t see any way to inflict real harm on that calculating bastard.

As he thought things through again, one thing became clear. Judging from everything Johnson had said so far, he wasn’t going to kill Siron—at least not yet. He’d talked about them being on the run together forever. When Siron had a high fever, Johnson had gotten into the cold water with him and held him to regulate his temperature. He was also conducting some kind of experiment on him. It wouldn’t make sense to kill the subject now—not while he was still extracting blood and checking for changes.

Unless, of course, he planned to lock Siron up and use him as a sex slave.

“...Disgusting.”

Siron suddenly remembered Johnson’s cover identity. Out of all the medical specialties, he’d introduced himself as a urologist. Used a fake name—“Johnson Lube.” That alone screamed depravity.

That nightgown he’d been given to change into—it felt less like clothing and more like a fetish costume. Something tailored to Johnson’s twisted tastes.

I’m not going to end my life as some sicko’s sex toy.

Fueled by rage and resolve, Siron dried his hair, wiped his clothes with the towel, and gave himself a pep talk before stepping out of the bathroom.

Johnson was standing against the wall near the bathroom, fastening a chain to a half-moon-shaped ring embedded halfway into the concrete wall. The end of the chain was connected to a metal shackle—much heavier and sturdier than the one that had been on Siron’s ankle.

Siron stared at the shackle resting in Johnson’s massive palm, then glanced toward the door at the front of the room.

If that thing goes on my ankle, it’s over!

Taking a deep breath, Siron bolted for the door. He lunged for the knob and twisted it with all his strength—but it slipped and spun uselessly in his grip.

“Please open! Come on, open up!”

He rattled the handle, slammed his body into the steel door. It didn’t budge. Chains clinked closer behind him. Panicked, Siron searched for a lock or switch—but there was nothing.

Johnson grabbed him from behind and spun him around. The moment his arm touched him, Siron flinched back against the door like it burned.

“Let me go! Please. I’ll live quietly, like I’m already dead.”

“It’s the third day.”

“...What?”

Johnson looked at him intently. Like a parent trying to make a clueless child understand, he spoke slowly, in a warning tone.

“You haven’t had a sip of water or eaten in three days. Soon, you’ll start showing signs of dehydration. So stop resisting, and let’s eat.”

Siron’s throat was dry, sure, but he didn’t feel hungry. If anything, the emptiness made his senses sharper and his mind clearer. But even with that clarity, he couldn’t see any way out from under Johnson’s shadow.

Johnson knelt down in front of him, one knee on the floor. As if Siron’s resistance didn’t matter at all, he lowered his head and exposed the back of his neck.

“Stay still.”

But Siron wasn’t dumb enough to obey. He sidestepped quickly, trying to gain distance, and Johnson sighed like the world was ending. He stretched out an arm and grabbed Siron’s ankle again, stopping him cold. Then he tilted his head up, his eyes elegant but sharp—like a predator.

“If you don’t want to end up in the basement again, stop messing around.”

There was pressure around his ankle now, firm but restrained. Johnson’s gaze held no sympathy, only warning. He gestured with his chin toward the door behind them.

The threat of violence finally broke Siron’s will. Staring blankly as the shackle was reattached to his ankle, wearing that threadbare gown, he saw a vision of his future: tied to a bed, destroyed again and again by Johnson’s unchecked lust.

He wanted to cry. To keep from spiraling into panic, Siron focused on his breathing. Slow, steady inhales. He couldn’t let his mind wander into that future. He had to stay sharp. Had to find a way out of this.

With damp eyes, he surveyed the gloomy room.

It was still daytime, but it was dark inside. The windows were few and tiny—intentionally built that way so no one could see in from outside. The living room was a little bigger than a standard apartment in the 1,700-square-foot range. Just two windows the size of a laptop screen. Three doors in total, including the bathroom. Siron couldn’t be sure, but he guessed the basement he’d first been taken to was behind one of those doors.

The kitchen was brutally minimalist. A single open-fronted shelf. A basic sink. No iron skillet, no knives, not even a fork he could use as a weapon.

The living room was the same—bare bones. A collapsible wooden table sat in the center with two mismatched chairs. On the table, boxes of military rations were piled up.

Maybe I could make a bomb out of the military rations.

Driven by desperation, Siron seriously shook his head.

They’d probably just taste even worse.

He had to be losing it, sinking into this kind of useless fantasy. Faced with perfect powerlessness, all his will to escape collapsed.

Johnson grabbed Siron’s limp wrist and guided him into one of the chairs. He dumped a few unopened ration packs into a paper bowl—didn’t even bother heating them—and set a plastic spoon in front of him.

Siron’s face twisted at the sight of the miserable food, but Johnson didn’t care. Sitting across from him, he scooped the same rations into his own bowl. But before touching his spoon, he slid over a thick bundle of paper.

It was about the width of a fingertip. A report. The title read:

<Isaac Bazelli’s DNA Analysis Research>.

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