L*st and Death

A new kind of humanity, Adam and Eve, diverging from Homo sapiens, interacting through pheromones.

If only the story had ended with the twist that premium-grade Omega-3 cured the alpha's incurable disease—it would’ve been a bit ridiculous, sure, but less disturbing.

The worldview Johnson had crafted was not the least bit original. Siron just wanted to escape from this bizarre narrative and run from the man terrifying him.

And yet, Johnson's unwavering belief in the birth of a new humanity—his conviction about a new Adam and Eve—sent a wave of ominous dread through Siron's heart. The Omega, positioned as °• N 𝑜 v 𝑒 l i g h t •° the cure; Johnson, the alpha with a terminal condition; and the clinical trials he’d carried out so far.

Siron naturally realized what all that dreadful rambling had been leading up to. From the beginning, he had been trapped in Johnson's delusion—a test subject for an experiment to create the ideal omega.

Johnson had created tens of thousands of fake web pages referencing Skåne Pharmaceuticals, targeting poor men who couldn’t even get proper erections. He ran three rounds of clinical trials, lured his subjects in by attaching burdock seeds to their hair to simulate intimacy, and during checkups, confessed to being gay—pushing Siron to perceive him as a potential romantic interest.

But that wasn’t all. Every time a needle pierced his skin, Johnson would speak in a low, depraved voice that sent a strange tingle down Siron’s spine. He seduced him with clothes tailored precisely to his tastes, ate olives with sensual exaggeration, and planted filthy, nipple-stimulating fantasies in Siron's mind. From start to finish, it had all been deliberate provocation—designed to make Siron feel sexually aware of Dr. Johnson and fall under his spell.

What would it be like to live in a world where the sensory realm had expanded? Behind that lurid question—framed like something out of a sex-ed seminar—was a hidden, sinister interrogation. And what had he said in response?

“I guess... I’d just adapt and get on with it.”

He’d blurted that out like it meant nothing. If that wasn’t the definition of being on completely different wavelengths...

“I—I don’t think I’m an omega. I don’t react to alpha pheromones, and my body hasn’t changed at all. Also... I’m a man, so I can’t exactly be Eve...”

“But as of now, you’re the closest thing we’ve got to an omega.”

Siron couldn’t agree. Seriously? Him—part of some new subspecies of humanity that interacts with alphas through pheromones? This was just delusion, gone completely off the rails.

“Then go ahead. Emit some pheromones and see if I respond.”

Johnson gazed down at him with a measured look. That heat again. That scent—animalistic, raw, not quite a stench but definitely not pleasant—like a wet beast after rain. Siron flinched. For a second, he wondered if it was pheromones, but it was just an ordinary body odor.

The weight on his shoulders lifted. Johnson slowly straightened his posture from where he'd been leaning in.

“It’s only been three days since the drug was administered. The lack of response is perfectly normal—your pheromone glands haven’t developed yet.”

“No. It’s not that I haven’t developed them—it’s that I never will.”

“With the right trigger... it might complete the process.”

There was no reasoning with him. Siron’s head pounded, his vision flashed red with fury. He didn’t want to be a character in some batshit novel born from the brain of a psychotic madman. No matter how well-constructed or deceptively plausible Johnson’s delusion might seem, this talk of “a new humanity” was complete bullshit. That he genuinely believed in his world—and tried to force others to join it—was terrifying.

“So you’re saying you’ll keep me locked up until I become an omega?”

Siron raised his tear-filled eyes to the man looming over him and pleaded.

“We—we already went through Phase 3 of the trial and I—I didn’t change at all! Omega or whatever, I’m not that! I’m not!”

Like a child rebelling against a parent, Siron’s body trembled, his voice choked like a dog cornered with nowhere to run. He knew he shouldn’t say things that would provoke Johnson—but he couldn’t stop the words from leaving his mouth.

“Say alphas and omegas are real—fine! But if that’s true, isn’t it even worse? You think being terminal means you can do whatever you want? Huh? So what if you're dying?! That doesn’t mean you get to trample all over other people to stay alive! If it were me, I’d rather just die!”

Siron’s anguish clearly sparked something in the man. Whether it was amusement, interest, or anger, Siron couldn’t tell. Johnson stared at him with a faint, unreadable smile.

He let out a dry chuckle, then shoved the table aside and walked up to Siron.

“Thanks for the advice. But if I were you, I’d start by knowing my place.”

He shoved the heavy wooden table—stacked with MRE boxes—aside like it was a curtain. At that monstrous show of strength, Siron’s rage was washed away like someone had dumped a bucket of ice water over him.

What the hell was I thinking? I must’ve lost my damn mind.

Before this lunatic decided to hand down a punishment, he needed to de-escalate—fast.

“O-okay! I’ll know my place! W-what do I need to do? Should I start by cleaning up?”

Siron sprang to his feet like he’d never yelled at Johnson. He switched personas—from the angry, broken Yoon Siron to a polite restaurant worker at Curry King. His teary eyes lifted pleadingly toward Johnson as he forced a smile.

“Where’s the trash bag?”

But Siron’s desperate attempt to shift the mood failed. Johnson didn’t follow his lead.

When Johnson seized Siron’s chin in his large hand, Siron realized this was not someone who responded to jokes or fake niceties.

“Why stop? That was fresh. Keep going.”

“Y-you mean, the knowing-my-place part?”

Johnson laughed like Siron was the most entertaining thing he’d ever seen. Like a deep-sea predator glowing to lure in prey, his bright blue eyes sparkled as he slowly licked his lips.

“Isaac Bazelli. That’s my real name.”

Siron didn’t understand what he’d just heard. Then came a flash of the report Johnson had shown him. A creeping suspicion that the whole thing had been a carefully orchestrated performance. And the dread that he might’ve been a lab rat for some shadowy research group.

Johnson Rube. He’d always assumed that ridiculous name was a pseudonym. And now, suddenly, this?

“You’re... not Johnson Rube?”

“I couldn’t let this moment be remembered with that name.”

“...Remember what?”

Siron asked like a clueless child. But even as the words left his mouth, he knew. The rough fingers gripping his chin, the locked, immovable gaze—that could only mean one thing.

Without hesitation, Johnson leaned in and engulfed him, bending at the waist and neck. His grip on Siron’s chin forced his mouth open helplessly. Their lips met, and Siron’s eyes snapped shut. A warm, sticky tongue—raw, unfamiliar—pressed against his own. The man’s lips suctioned tightly, overwhelming him like a leech.

His heart pounded. Whether from arousal or fear, he couldn’t tell. Siron snapped out of his paralysis and tried to turn his head, but the man chased after his lips, caught him again, and this time, a hand gripped the back of his head and pulled him closer. Crude bites, vulgar sucking.

A throbbing in his perineum. Heavy pressure pulling blood toward his lower body. Siron let out an involuntary moan.

“Mmng.”

Startled by his own sound, Siron’s eyes flew open. Those electric blue eyes—staring right at him, reacting to his response.

Shame and exposure flooded in like ice water. He shoved Johnson away with all his strength.

And then came the wrongness.

His dick, usually limp and weightless, now carried weight. Siron slowly lowered his gaze in numb disbelief. The erection he’d thought permanently gone—was straining against his pants, lifting the fabric.

At the apartment entrance, the taxi driver who’d picked up Yoon Siron clearly remembered where he’d dropped him off. Siron’s destination had been a run-down two-story motel in Mocho-Lacca. Lewis, Baek Kyung, and Anna—who joined after her shift—headed there immediately. When Anna flashed her police badge across the counter, the motel owner, clearly used to this sort of thing, handed over the room key and disengaged.

Siron’s belongings were still in the room. A reunion with him seemed imminent. But midnight passed, and Siron didn’t return. One day, then two, and on the third day—still nothing. It was as if he had vanished from the face of the earth.

“Isaac Bazelli. That bastard definitely kidnapped him.”

Baek Kyung named a third party—Isaac Bazelli—as the kidnapper. Thankfully, Baek Kyung knew the plate number of the man’s vehicle. And Anna was a traffic cop. Which meant they had access to an unbeatable program: ALPR.

Anna’s job involved patrolling the roads or parking on quiet streets and staring into a small monitor. Between the driver and passenger seats, the ALPR system scanned license plates, logged locations, and fed data to police. In short, every patrol car and roadside CCTV in Baggers City was a surveillance tower for Big Brother.

Vehicle Year: 2011

VIN: 4XCZ271

Registration Expiration: 2017.06.23

Model: Chevrolet X Suburban

Owner: Steven Davis

When they ran the plate of Isaac Bazelli’s black Suburban through the system, this is what came up. No speeding tickets. No parking violations. The guy played civilian perfectly.

Further investigation of Steven Davis, the listed owner, revealed a house in Sunny Royal—an affluent white suburb outside Baggers City. But when they visited, it was an empty home that had been on the market for a while. The phone number? Fake.

And the vehicle’s movement patterns were suspicious. Despite not being registered for rideshare or cargo use, the truck had lingered in the southern slums near the Nathan River from July 31 to August 3. Too long. Too often. In dangerous neighborhoods—Riverland, Mocho-Lacca, Toscatto—places densely populated by low-income, Hispanic, and Black communities. A white middle-class man wandering those areas aimlessly? Highly unusual.

Using ALPR data, Anna marked every area the black Suburban had stopped or passed through after Siron’s disappearance. Thankfully, the vehicle had spent enough time in specific zones that they could narrow down its likely location. Among them were the motel where Siron had been staying temporarily—and his apartment, which Lewis and Baek Kyung were now using as a base.

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