L*st and Death

After the first prostate examination, something had clearly shifted in Yoon Siron’s psyche. The man who used to quietly submit and swallow his humiliation for the sake of temporary peace now acted with a boldness that made him seem like a different person.

“I’ll take care of the meals.”

He insisted that he could make something edible even with military rations and declared that he’d be in charge of cooking from now on. He stayed suspiciously long in the kitchen, claiming he was trying to turn retort pouches into a real meal.

“Looks a lot tastier, right?”

With a suspiciously bright smile, Siron placed the food in front of Isaac.

He’d scooped the meatballs out of a meatball marinara, laid them on top of fried rice, and then smothered the whole thing in pungent Indian curry. Between two crackers, he’d swapped the usual cream cheese for hash browns, a sausage patty, and jalapeños to create a makeshift burger. He mixed grapefruit powder with water and bourbon whiskey to produce a passable cocktail.

Isaac sipped the cocktail to whet his appetite, then watched Siron, who had already started eating, and took a big bite out of the cracker.

It was supposed to be crispy, but the cracker was soggy. The hash brown gave off a fragrant, artificial scent. It tasted like body wash and shampoo mixed into a sauce—just the right level of disgusting. He wasn’t obligated to eat it, but considering how hard Siron must have thought through his murder plot, Isaac forced down a few more bites.

“This is... quite a strange taste.”

“Strange? I thought it was pretty good.”

Siron replied shamelessly. Isaac leaned forward, a sly smile on his lips, bringing his face right up to Siron’s.

“Let’s not play games with food, shall we?”

“Huh? What do you mean, games?”

“You mixed shampoo into the dish.”

Siron blinked as if confused that shampoo had walked into the dish on its own, then let out a dry laugh.

“Oh, come on. That’s just because you don’t like the taste. Fine, I’ll bring you something that suits your palate.”

As if preemptively striking, Siron snatched the plate with shaking hands and shoved it into a trash bag, then casually brought over another retort meal.

By evening, Yoon Siron started writhing on the living room floor, claiming his stomach hurt.

“Ugh... I-I think my appendix burst.”

Red-faced and teary-eyed, he crawled pathetically across the floor and clung to Isaac’s leg. If one didn’t know he was an actor, the performance was convincing enough to almost believe him.

Unfortunately, Isaac did know he was an actor. Search his name and tens of thousands of results would pop up. He was a famous figure who had stirred an entire country with a sex scandal and yet started a new life under his real name, not an alias.

If Isaac had been in his shoes, he would’ve used a common fake name to escape his past and begin anew with no prejudices attached. But for some reason, Siron had started his post-scandal life with his real name.

“Ahh, I... I need to go to the hospital. I’m dying, huff...”

Isaac pressed a finger firmly into Siron’s lower left abdomen, mirroring a serious expression. Siron, pouring sweat, perfectly reproduced the agony of acute appendicitis—but he had one crucial fact wrong. Appendicitis causes pain in the right, not the left, lower abdomen.

“Looks like acute appendicitis.”

“Agh! It hurts! It really hurts! Emergency room—please, I need a hospital!”

“There’s no time to get to a hospital. I’ll proceed with surgery right away.”

“Wha—huh? But you’re not even a real doctor—”

“I already have simple surgical tools prepared, and I know the procedure theoretically.”

“W-wait, no. I can’t let a quack doctor—”

“Given the circumstances, general anesthesia isn’t possible, and the incision will have to be large, but it can’t be helped. We’ll begin before the peritonitis worsens.”

A twitch flickered under Siron’s eye.

“N-no, it’s okay. I’ll try to endure a bit longer.”

“No. It’s best to proceed immediately.”

“I can handle it. Ugh—it’s probably just a stomach bug, actually. Just indigestion.”

Ignoring Isaac completely, Siron curled up on his side and groaned less and less until he suddenly “recovered” and stood up like a miracle had occurred.

And the bizarre behavior didn’t stop. As time passed, Siron seemed to realize that Isaac wasn’t subjecting him to harsh physical treatment. He came to understand that he was needed for something—and the moment Isaac inflicted pain beyond what he could tolerate, that need would vanish.

It wasn’t because Isaac still had a shred of humanity, or because he felt any compassion for Siron. In Isaac’s constructed worldview, Siron was a necessary protagonist, and maintaining him was a calculated, pragmatic choice.

—

As the sun perched below the mountain ridge in the dawn hour, the dim light of early morning barely slipped through the dense trees, brushing across the undergrowth. The windless forest remained eerily quiet, broken only by occasional distant cries of wild animals.

Locals called this silent mountain range Sombras—meaning “shadow.” Even in broad daylight, the thick canopy above blocked the sky, making one feel as though they were walking through dawn itself. The dark, damp Sombras mountains flowed softly into the arms of the Secreta marsh, and Isaac’s hideout lay at the edge of the ridge, not far from the swamp.

It was a perfect hiding spot—far enough from town, close to the marsh, and just over one ridge to reach the roadside. Ideal for disposing of bodies and avoiding pursuit. Still, Isaac planned to relocate soon. He’d left too many breadcrumbs going back and forth between Secreta and Baggers City.

The man abducted on the same day as Yoon Siron had been tracking Isaac since Beljoras. He was a retired Mexican cartel hitman, hunting Isaac for three years since the murder of his son during a resort tour to Beljoras.

The man harbored deep hatred, but his lips remained sealed. Despite brutal torture, he kept silent through most of Isaac’s interrogation. The only thing Isaac had gleaned was that the man had tracked him using forged ID records.

Three days after being kidnapped, the man died in a mountain shed. The gunshot wound to his thigh had festered, leading to sepsis.

“Please... let me die beside my son. Bury me there.”

But his wish went unfulfilled. His body was tossed into the swamp, where a giant alligator dragged it under the surface—and with that, he disappeared from the world without a trace.

Isaac stared blankly into the double-combustion firepit. After a long while, without a second thought, he tossed in a stack of paper—over a thousand pages of brittle notes. The research log of Dr. Yuri Berek, the first human to genetically reengineer himself into an omega.

The log detailed methods of embedding virus-carried gene cells into DNA, fostering omega pheromone glands, and developing transformation protocols. It also contained data on the distribution of pheromone glands, omega heat cycles, changes during knotting, and the emotional-behavioral effects of imprinting.

Isaac stirred the firepit with an iron rod, making sure no page was left unburnt. He didn’t need the journal anymore. Every detail was imprinted in his mind—he could recall any page, any passage, like turning a mental bookmark.

No new omega could be born without going through Isaac Bazelli. All other alphas in this world were doomed to extinction.

Once the flames died down, Isaac dumped wet soil onto the firepit to smother it, then headed back down the mountain toward his hideout to check the nearby CCTV.

The hideout had been built into a gentle slope, with the roof thickly covered in foliage. Isaac jumped from the camouflage-covered roof and straightened his back. His eyes landed on the thick convex windowpane. The glass acted like a giant magnifying lens, distorting Yoon Siron’s face behind it.

The moment their eyes met, Siron blinked, then suddenly screamed and bolted out of sight.

“Huh?”

A dumbfounded chuckle escaped Isaac.

Opening the door and stepping inside, he found Siron clumsily pushing a chair back toward the table. The window was set far too high for Siron to see out of—he must’ve stood on the chair while Isaac was gone, trying to check outside.

Feigning nonchalance, Siron wiped the spotless tabletop with a wet tissue, pretending to clean. Though secretly waiting for a chance to escape, he acted as though the thought had never crossed his mind.

Isaac approached. Even knowing he’d been caught red-handed, Siron calmly returned to his seat and pretended to work on a Sudoku puzzle. Isaac had bought it for him from the local convenience store to stave off his endless complaints. Sitting across from him, arms folded, Isaac silently watched.

“Why are you staring at me like that? It’s distracting.”

Isaac’s stare had wrecked Siron’s concentration—he was solving the puzzle with only 20% accuracy. Isaac stifled a sigh and kept his gaze fixed, pretending not to understand Korean. Siron eventually cupped his hand over the page to block Isaac’s view and leaned forward.

“Is this a 9? Hmm... I already wrote a 9 below. Where did I screw up? ......If I could just get through that steel door. If I ran for the woods, what could he even do? Ugh, but that bastard’s door only opens with his fingerprint... Should I just bash his skull in someday?”

Unbeknownst to Siron, Isaac could understand Korean. In his past work with a private military contractor, he’d provided security on Korean commercial vessels near Somalia. That had been enough to pick up basic conversation.

By the fourth day of captivity, Siron had started muttering petty revenge right under Isaac’s nose.

“God, I’m gonna die of liver fire.”

“What the hell is that freak doing holed up in there?”

“Damn it. Of course the military nerd eats nothing but rations. I’m so sick of this.”

When Isaac didn’t react, Siron gradually escalated his monologues.

“Hope he gets struck by lightning or something.”

“‘Evolution,’ my ass. Ugh, this is my life now? Got caught by a lunatic...”

“Just let me escape. I’ll lock that bastard in a studio apartment and feed him nothing but Chinese dumplings for fifteen years.” LanguageResources

With a blank, pleasant expression that betrayed none of the venom, Siron cursed Isaac to hell and back. His rebellion was so pathetic that Isaac let the mosquito-wing muttering slide.

By the seventh day after the injection, Siron had taken to treating Isaac like a ghost even when he was standing right there.

“You bastard. Cow bastard.”

Isaac looked up. Siron, pretending to work on Sudoku, also looked up. Their eyes met—and a flicker of embarrassment spread across Siron’s face.

“Ah... I got confused with the numbers.”

“Numbers?”

“I solve puzzles better when I mutter in Korean. Helps me focus.”

Siron gave an innocent smile and bowed his head again. Casually erasing numbers with his eraser, he laughed like nothing was wrong.

As each failed escape attempt went by, Siron became increasingly convinced of his usefulness. Otherwise, he wouldn’t be running his mouth so carelessly, unafraid.

“So that means...”

“...he’s not keeping me for sex?”

Just as Isaac opened his mouth—thinking he’d actually gone easy on Siron—Siron muttered, lost in thought.

“Maybe being a sex slave wasn’t the goal?”

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