L*st and Death

“Pheromone gland development is slow, but genital development is fast. If the heat cycle proceeds normally, the inner cervix will begin to open.”

“Ha... Haha. I didn’t think it would’ve developed this far.”

Isaac Bazelli’s voice surfaced from the muddy water of memory, where too many events had swirled and mixed. Siron couldn’t understand how he’d forgotten something so crucial until now.

Back when Isaac had examined Siron’s anus with his fingers, Siron had felt a sharp, unmistakable sensation—above the prostate, or perhaps deeper still. It made his body twist involuntarily, all his muscles clench from a jolt of pleasure.

I thought I was just hypersensitive from being starved of sex. But... an inner cervix?

Siron wanted to just faint and never wake up.

If the inner cervix referred to an opening located deep inside the body rather than at the external end of the vaginal canal, then something very different—something uniquely not human—was developing inside him.

There was no point denying it now. Alphas were real. And the sacrifice laid out on the altar for them was the omega. Siron’s life was being dragged helplessly into the gravity field Isaac had created. But he couldn’t just stand by and watch his body deteriorate. He had to find a way.

Siron carefully opened the bathroom door and stepped back into the vestibule. From the dining room, the bathroom wasn’t visible, so his absence wasn’t immediately noticed. He grabbed a handful of car keys from the rack, then slipped out, quickly crossing the garden to the garage.

But before he could even start the engine, two men came running down the stairs. He tried to lock the doors as he fired up the ignition, like a prey animal fleeing a predator—but the car door yanked open before he could.

“Fuck! Get out!”

Baekgyeong bellowed like a thunderclap, grabbing Siron by the arm.

“How long’s it been since you came back from being kidnapped, and now you’re trying to run off again?!”

Resistance was meaningless against that overwhelming strength. Siron was dragged out of the high-set car with Baekgyeong’s grip still on his arm.

“I’m not running away!”

“Then why’d you take all the keys? So we couldn’t follow you?”

“I have to check something. ...There’s something I need to confirm.”

“What is it?!”

The fire in Baekgyeong’s eyes seared through Siron. Frozen like ice, Siron stared up at him. Whenever Baekgyeong truly lost control and shouted in rage, Siron’s mind would just shut down.

“What is it? Say it. Right now, Yoon Siron.”

Baekgyeong gripped both of Siron’s arms and shook him, his voice ragged with pain.

“Please... just stay in front of me, okay?”

“I don’t want to become an omega! I won’t! I’m not doing this!”

“And how the hell are you gonna stop it? You think wandering around on your own is gonna magically fix this?”

“Better that than getting your help. All you ever do is get in the way.”

“Enough!”

Lewis shoved himself between them, intercepting Baekgyeong. His stance was defensive, as if trying to prevent Baekgyeong from hitting Siron. Baekgyeong roughly brushed Lewis’s arm aside.

“Don’t butt in!”

“All of you, shut up!”

Anna arrived at the garage, shouting, voice full of irritation. She shot a sharp warning look at Baekgyeong, then turned to Siron.

“Yoon Siron. Where were you going?”

He didn’t want to share his thoughts with anyone—but he had no choice. He reluctantly answered.

“Dr. Johnson’s Urology Clinic.”

“Alright then. You drive. I’ll shut these two assholes up.”

And so, with all three of them in the car, they made their way across town, heading south of the Nathan River into Riverland.

Dr. Johnson’s Urology Clinic.

A dull gray metal sign was bolted to the exterior of the building. Camouflaged to blend in, almost deliberately unnoticed. Just looking at it made Siron’s stomach churn.

The first floor was still vacant, and several windows on the second and third floors were either broken or missing entirely, letting the wind move freely through them. The interior was dark and clearly abandoned, silent and desolate. Siron pushed open the front door and stepped inside, the others following behind.

“What are you hoping to find here?”

Anna’s voice was direct. Siron answered seriously.

“Clues. Anything related to Isaac Bazelli.”

Then, in a rush of nervous urgency, he added:

“Even something small. If it’s about Isaac, don’t throw it out. And if you’re just here to get in my way—go back to the car. Please.”

It was a warning—directed at Lewis and Baekgyeong, maybe even at Anna. Siron couldn’t trust any of the men who seemed to be waiting for the omega to ripen and fall into their hands like a fruit.

Isaac was the one who had done this to him—but he also seemed to be the only one who held the key to fixing it. All Siron could think about was finding him.

Siron passed through the empty first floor and ascended to the second, where the clinic used to be. It was a wreck—like a hornet’s nest had been kicked open. Equipment and furniture lay destroyed everywhere, as if there’d been a violent struggle. And yet, despite the destruction, there were no obvious signs of injury—no blood, no traces of wounded people.

“We checked this place when you went missing. There was no trace of Isaac Bazelli.”

But Siron ignored her. He combed through every corner—inside broken drawers that barely opened on bent rails, under desks, into gaps hard to reach. When he found nothing, he climbed to the third floor.

The third floor was a single, open space, no dividing walls. It was a mess—food scraps and trash left behind by squatters. He kept climbing, making his way up to the roof. The waterproof coating was peeling everywhere. Among the bleak scene, he spotted a drum barrel about thigh-high. It was filled with murky water where mosquito larvae skated across the surface like dancers.

“You don’t actually think there’s anything in that, right?”

Lewis had come up beside him without a sound.

“Who knows. Just the fact that there’s a barrel like this up here is suspicious enough.”

Siron reached out with his foot, about to kick the barrel over, but Lewis stopped him and instead tipped it toward the drain. The rusted drum, which looked like it could give you tetanus just from touching it, toppled with a heavy crash, spilling its contents.

What first came out was foul water. Then came blackish-gray sludge, thick as wet dirt. Mixed into the muck were bits of burned and melted material—scorched scraps stuck in clumps.

“Looks like someone burned clothes. ...Were they trying to destroy evidence?”

“Step aside.”

Siron shoved his hands straight into the filth, undeterred by the mess. Digging through the scorched remnants, he pulled out a wad of papers barely intact—photos, bound together with string. Some were damaged by fire, but the lamination and tight layering had helped preserve them.

Carefully, as if flipping through a deck of precious cards, Siron went through them one by one. The more he saw, the heavier his expression grew. It felt like a poison was spreading through his body—a kind of horror he’d never known in his life, soaking deep into the flesh.

Most of the photos were of corpses. None appeared to have died naturally. Their deaths varied in method, but they all looked like experiments gone wrong. Were they Isaac Bazelli’s test subjects? The 998 failed lab rats he once mentioned?

Siron, then, was the 999th—the one who’d come close to success. The cherry on top of the cake. The final decoration.

His knees gave out, and he sank to the ground.

“Why would he keep photos of the bodies? If he’d been just a little more careful, he could’ve burned them all. But he didn’t.”

Anna’s murmur echoed through the silence. No one answered, but she kept talking, as if her brain only worked when her mouth was moving.

Siron felt completely drained. Even when Lewis cleaned the photos and laid them out one by one on the study table, Siron couldn’t bring himself to look.

If he had failed in the experiment—he might have become just another corpse in those photos.

Baekgyeong stood a step back from the table, arms crossed, studying the images with a guarded expression. Some of the victims’ faces were intact enough to recognize. There were men and women, ranging from teens to forties. On the backs of some photos, smeared ink suggested they’d once held notes—but now the writing was illegible.

Baekgyeong was unsettled. The Isaac Bazelli he’d heard about from Dr. Tigry wasn’t someone who murdered without cause. Death followed him, yes—but there had always been a reason. A purpose.

“Tell me everything.”

Siron’s voice cut through the silence. He looked directly at Baekgyeong.

“Who the hell is Isaac Bazelli?”

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