L*st and Death

It only took a few searches these days to dig up the scandal of a man who once lived in some faraway country across the Pacific. Ashimi gave Siron a quick up-and-down glance, then shook his head in disapproval before heading into the hall to take the order.

When there weren’t many delivery requests, Siron usually took orders in the hall—but when East Asians visited, especially Koreans, either Ashimi or the boss Ikbal handled it instead. Siron was trying to keep his distance from other Koreans and live quietly, so he often had to rely on the help of Ashimi or Ikbal.

“Samosa, butter chicken—mild, shrimp korma—spicy, garlic and plain naan, two each. And one order for delivery to Linhart.”

Before he knew it, Ikbal was back from the bathroom and reading off the order slip as he began preparing the dishes. Siron, standing beside him, pressed discs of dough against the curved clay surface of the tandoor oven while sneaking a glance outside. Yep, definitely Korean tourists visiting Hell-sota.

“What the hell brings them all the way out here?”

Ikbal’s already deep frown lines carved even deeper as he scowled. He didn’t seem remotely pleased to see customers during a slow hour.

“They probably just looked up places with high ratings.”

“Still, this is a cheap takeout place. Not exactly a tourist hotspot.”

Contrary to his dry first impression—which made it seem like he’d think life stories were pointless and annoying—Ikbal actually had a wide streak of nosiness and took a surprising interest in the circumstances of the people who visited his restaurant. WritersResources

And Ikbal was right: Curry King wasn’t a spot innocent tourists would stumble upon while sampling local food. The dishes were maybe slightly above average, but the real problem was location. The restaurant sat in Riverland, a subdistrict of Baggers City, the capital of the state of Hell-sota.

Baggers City had ranked among the top 3 cities nationwide for violent crime for ten years straight. Starting two years ago, the number of incidents had skyrocketed so badly it pushed past even Anniston, Alabama, to claim the title of the most dangerous city in America.

The governor of Hell-sota had declared a war on crime and launched special crackdowns, even offering incentives to recruit police officers from other regions. But instead, local cops were the ones fleeing to other states. On top of that, Riverland was one of the worst slums in Baggers City, riddled with robberies, assaults, and random violence—people were shot dead in the streets on a regular basis.

Bars on windows were a standard household feature, and Summers Park—smack in the middle of Riverland—was crawling with addicts, sex workers, and the homeless.

And yet, some tourists still came to this godforsaken city. Most were visiting Wonderland Resort, a theme park just 18 kilometers outside Baggers City. Others came for the many large and indie film studios based in nearby states.

As a result, some of them occasionally lost their way and drifted into this dangerous area like stray ducks. These Korean women were probably the same—tourists drawn in by the theme park or studios who had unknowingly wandered into Riverland.

“That toy on her bag—isn’t that a Lulu’s Adventure plushie? My wife loves that show.”

Ikbal wiped curry off the edge of a plate with a kitchen towel and glanced back at the dining room again. Clearly, the tourists were bothering him.

“Nope, I’ll handle this one myself. Ron, you go make the delivery.”

He stepped out of the kitchen carrying a tray of food and a notepad from behind the counter.

“Korean?”

The two women glanced at each other nervously, then gave a small, awkward nod. The intimidating Aryan-looking man standing over them seemed to have them on edge, like they were worried he might do something.

Ikbal flipped to the last page of the notebook and held it out to them.

> This is a high-crime area. After your meal, please avoid exploring the neighborhood. We strongly recommend you call an Uber and return to your accommodation immediately.

Siron had written it in Korean, for the sake of tourists who had stumbled into this miserable part of town. He caught a glimpse of the women’s expressions turning pale as they read the warning in their own language and quickly ducked out, pulling on his helmet to hide his face.

Yoon Siron had once been an actor. He specialized in pulling one of the many facets of himself into focus, analyzing it, and expressing it with technical precision—from himself, back into himself. That was the kind of performance he gave.

His style was the complete opposite of method acting. Some praised him as one of the finest actors of his generation; others claimed his unique "tics" were so obvious that you only had to watch one of his films to know what his entire career would look like.

Both opinions were partly true. He drew on archetypes from thrillers, dramas, and fantasy films—but the most important reference material was always himself. He never stopped studying himself, shaping his output through constant self-analysis.

He truly loved acting. He’d been arrogant enough to believe that, fueled by his own endless resources, he could keep dazzling audiences until the day he died.

But Yoon Siron’s false myth came crashing down far faster and far more brutally than he ever expected. Someone leaked the contents of his phone to an online forum, and hashtags like #YoonSironSponsor #YoonSironDrugs #GayChastityBelt #UrethraPlug exploded across the internet and social media.

Then came follow-up reports from gossip outlets and TV networks, and Siron’s image plummeted into a pit with no bottom.

The leaked data revealed none of the “brooding genius” actor persona. All his hypocrisy had been dragged into the light.

“Shit—!”

Without realizing it, Siron had been gripping the throttle too hard. He panicked and eased up, slowing the bike. For a moment, the front wheel had actually lifted off the ground—he’d nearly wiped out.

If he was going to die that easily, he should’ve at least stabbed that bastard road manager in the gut for leaking his data first. As he struggled to regain control of the wobbling bike, a car behind him honked and swerved around him, speeding ahead.

“AAAGH! KIM HWANGJOONG, YOU FUCKING PIECE OF SHIT!!”

Siron screamed like a man possessed. He’d nearly died delivering goddamn curry without ever getting his revenge. That bastard Kim Hwangjoong had sold him out for a measly 300 million won—three hundred mil for his entire private life.

“...Unbelievable. Three hundred million.”

Back then, it really didn’t seem like much—not to the old Siron, the one who had money. 300 million was pocket change, the kind of cash he could earn from a few grueling days on set. He’d forgotten what a fortune it could be to someone with no conscience.

“I should’ve squirreled away more back when I was earning.”

Siron muttered bitterly to himself.

Just hearing Korean again was enough to dredge up all the memories he’d been trying to forget. His mood sank like a stone. But he had a bigger problem than that.

When he reached the delivery address and opened the delivery bag, a wave of heat rushed to his face. One of the curry containers had spilled—half of it had leaked into the bag. The disposable utensils that had been stacked on top must’ve fallen and knocked the lid loose when he wobbled on the bike.

Siron prided himself on giving customers what they paid for, so the sight nearly made him black out. He could already imagine Ikbal’s expression—furious that Siron might earn them a bad review. Ikbal was obsessed with ratings.

Okay. Go give them a new set and throw in a freebie to smooth it over.

Siron pulled himself together quickly and approached the tall perimeter wall. Riverland, south of the Nason River, was home to the working class—but north of the river was Linhart, the wealthy district. The residents here were all affluent, and the city earned so much in taxes from them that they had their own dedicated municipal police, with far better security than the rest of Baggers City.

And yet—someone living in one of these high-walled mansions had ordered a cheap curry set. Must’ve gotten tricked by the Google reviews.

Taking a deep breath, Siron calmed himself and rang the doorbell.

No response.

He rang it again. Then again. It took several tries before a voice finally came through the speaker.

—*I’ll unlock the gate. Just leave it at the door.*

The woman’s voice sounded worn-out, like she couldn’t believe she had to deal with this nonsense right now. Siron’s heart dropped. If she saw the spilled curry, she might go nuclear.

“Ah, excuse me! Uh—you might want to take a look first—”

—*Why?*

“I’m really, really sorry, but one of the lids came off during delivery and the food spilled...”

—.......

“I’m so, so sorry.”

—*Goddammit!*

He heard the buzzer. Siron pulled off his helmet, tucking it under his arm, and used his free hand to lift the plastic bag that was now completely soaked in curry.

There was a decent walk from the gate to the front entrance. As he got closer, though, his legs felt unsteady. The air around the house seemed heavy, like it was pressing down in layers.

“Maybe I’m just nervous.”

Siron glanced around, worried. The atmosphere around this house felt... different.

A woman stood in the open front doorway.

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