Baek Kyung took out a prepaid burner phone he’d prepared in advance. Using the glacially slow in-flight Wi-Fi, he opened a saved internet page.
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Yoon Siron Update.jpg
Comments: 1,129 │ Views: 79,452
[Photo]
[Photo]
Working part-time as a server at a curry shop in the US
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?????????
Holy shit
Wait, really..?
It just looks like him because of the mask, right?
↳ Probably just a mask-fish.
↳ w: Nope. You can see him with the mask pulled down. It’s 100% Yoon Siron [Photo]
↳ Jesus. It’s really him.
↳ Obvious hidden cam... lol
↳ He survived? Thought Moby-Dick had sent a hit squad.
Curry King? LMAO what kind of name is that?
Where is this?
↳ w: A friend from my K-drama fandom sent it.
---
Around 2PM Korean time, a post about Yoon Siron’s current status had gone up on an online community board. The same bastard who used to spread his legs so easily but wouldn’t lift a finger to pour a glass of water for anyone—was now waiting tables at some cheap curry joint.
He’d clearly tried not to be recognized, keeping a mask on around the customers. But of course, he wasn’t thorough enough, and someone had snapped a photo of him smiling with his mask pulled down under his chin. The moment Baek Kyung saw that idiotic smile, a thrill ran down his spine—more excitement than disgust.
And that wasn’t all. Since Baek Kyung had boarded the flight, more posts about Yoon Siron had started to surface.
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Yoon Siron Curry Restaurant Review
Comments: 629 │ Views: 49,452
[Photo]
[Photo]
Summary: The curry’s pretty and the staff’s even tastier
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(Hidden due to mass reports │ Click to view)
This whore's always the same lol
No wonder it’s a hot spot
↳ LMAO
↳ lolololol
↳ What if Moby-Dick broke out of the psych ward because he missed that dick?
↳ He’s been out for a while
↳ Already??
↳ Yeah
---
Moby-Dick, huh?
Baek Kyung smirked as he scrolled. Little bugs who wouldn’t dare meet his eyes if they saw him in person had the gall to mock him online. But he didn’t care. Sometimes even bugs were useful.
After all, hadn’t they just dropped a fat, juicy lead right in front of him—Yoon Siron’s current whereabouts?
A chime rang out overhead: the plane was preparing to land at Archer International Airport. Outside the window, the endless stretch of Palm Beach came into view as the aircraft began its descent.
Hell-sota, protruding like a peninsula toward the sea, sat on the equator-adjacent southern coast of the United States. To the west were Mexico and Beljoras; to the east, the Atlantic Ocean.
Baek Kyung, who had lived between Korea and the U.S. since childhood, was relatively familiar with both the East and West Coasts. But the South, with its ocean-facing cities, was a different story. Warm year-round, but plagued in summer by deadly heat waves and disasters like hurricanes and tornadoes.
And every goddamn day: muggings, rapes, murders, gang turf wars.
Yoon Siron had hidden himself in this hellhole, not knowing which street brawl might be his last. Which meant—if Yoon Siron suddenly disappeared one day, no one would even notice.
After exiting the airport, Baek Kyung headed straight to a car dealership. What was a pursuit, erotic thriller, or action chase without a convertible for some open-air sex?
“I’m sorry, sir. Inventory is very limited right now. If you place an order today, the earliest delivery for a new vehicle would be October.”
“It’s July. You’re saying I have to wait till October?”
All 195 centimeters of Baek Kyung’s frame radiated displeasure. He stared silently, and the dealer flinched under the pressure.
“How about an SUV?”
“That’s even worse—at least five months wait.”
“Christ. So you don’t even have some clunky SUV lying around, let alone a sports car or sedan.”
The dealer sighed inwardly as Baek Kyung lounged arrogantly on the sofa, picking a fight under the guise of asking questions.
From the moment Baek Kyung had walked through the door—eyebrows furrowed and radiating trouble—the dealer had been on edge. He was tall and good-looking, but that wasn’t the first thing that struck you. No, it was that mean face. A guy like that wouldn’t be easy.
His outfit said businessman, but his baby-faced youth and sharp, thuggish features screamed something else entirely. He was built like a pro MMA fighter. The dealer could already guess the kind of work he did.
Shit... Now we’ve got Asian gangs flooding into Baggers City on top of the Latinos.
“I’m sorry. But without a reservation, we can’t offer a new car.”
Baek Kyung blew air through his lips, flicking his bangs aside with a puff. He glared at the smiling dealer.
“Damn it. I really wanted to have car sex in a convertible.”
“Excuse me?”
The dealer didn’t understand the Korean, but he definitely caught the words convertible and sex. He forced a dry smile.
“Y-you mean... a convertible vehicle?”
Ignoring the awkward reply, Baek Kyung looked out at an elderly couple examining a mid-size luxury sedan with temporary plates.
“That one’s already out for delivery, right?”
“That? Oh, those folks reserved it back in spring...”
“I’ll take that one. What’s the price?”
“Um... the Cylon Class 301? Current market price is \$220,000. But the price could vary by the fall...”
“No. I mean that specific car—the one those tiny old people are trying to drive off with.”
“Excuse me?”
Baek Kyung stood up, decision made.
While the dealer stood there torn over whether to call the cops—thinking some crazy gangster was about to rob innocent civilians—Baek Kyung was already outside, approaching the elderly couple.
“Excuse me. Would you be willing to sell me this car?”
They were startled—not just by his face, which was intimidating as hell, but by the completely unexpected question. They looked at each other in confusion. Baek Kyung smiled, dimples pressing deep into his cheeks.
“I’ll pay you six hundred thousand dollars.”
He had plenty of untraceable funds stashed away. Multiple burner phones. Even car insurance pre-registered under another person’s name. Everything had been ready for a long time—for this exact moment.
I’ve missed you, you fucking bastard.
Like a pitbull let off its leash, Baek Kyung’s fighting spirit flared up—and he grinned with brutal satisfaction.
---
CHAPTER 2: Second Injection
Dr. Johnson’s urology clinic was dead quiet as usual.
Unlike his first visit late at night, this time Siron had scheduled his appointment for around 2PM. Yet even during the day, the waiting area was completely empty. Not a single other patient. It was probably the result of that glorious 1.4-star Google rating.
There wasn’t even a nurse on duty. Even in a small, struggling clinic, you’d expect at least one nurse, right?
Siron couldn’t hold back his curiosity and asked, lightly probing.
“Must be busy handling all the patients by yourself.”
Johnson didn’t even look up, scribbling in his notebook.
“There’s a labor shortage. It’s not easy finding a nurse. But it’s fine—there aren’t many patients.”
He was reviewing the questionnaire Siron had filled out over the past week, making careful notes. The writing looked like letters—kind of like u, h, n—but it wasn’t English. Siron had never seen that script before.
The clinical trial Siron was participating in was sponsored by a Swedish company called Skåne Pharmaceuticals. Watching Dr. Johnson jot down strange symbols, Siron figured the man must be Swedish too.
A Swedish doctor, running a ghost-town urology clinic in a city notorious for the highest crime rates in the country, staying open late into the night. His life didn’t seem all that smooth either.
Siron gave him a slow once-over from head to toe.
His bangs were long, falling like curtains and covering half his forehead. Probably hadn’t had time to cut them. His beard was faint, trimmed close. Unlike the stiff military vibe from their first meeting, the man now seemed slightly disheveled. And clinging to his hair were burrs—devil’s claw seeds.
“You’ve got seeds stuck in your hair.”
Johnson paused mid-note and finally looked up.
His eyes were an unnatural, icy blue—like some alien whose eyeballs had been injected with fluorescent fluid. Siron felt like he was staring into the face of something not quite human.
Johnson set down his pen and met Siron’s gaze as if his eyes were a mirror. Then he reached up and plucked two seeds from his scalp.
“Hm. You’re right.”
“There’s more on the crown. Want me to get them?”
“Please do.”
Siron was caught off guard. He’d expected a refusal. Instead, Johnson bowed his head slightly, waiting for Siron’s touch.
Feeling like he’d stuck his nose in where it didn’t belong, Siron awkwardly stood and walked over.
He ran his fingers through the man’s thick, soft, slightly wavy hair—surprisingly plush for a Westerner—and gently picked out the burrs.
“You must’ve gone on a very intense walk.”
“I went hiking at dawn.”
“At dawn? Where to?”
“Secreta.”
“Wait—Secreta? Isn’t that super far?”
“It’s not close.”
Secreta was over 200 miles from Baggers City. The biggest swamp in the country. Who the hell went hiking at dawn in a swamp two hundred miles away?
Apparently someone who relieved the stress of a dying clinic with extreme thrills.
“Isn’t it scary in the dark? There’s gators, right?”
“Maybe I’ve been lucky. Haven’t run into any yet.”
“Yeah, well. If you were in a gator’s stomach, we wouldn’t be having this conversation.”
Johnson chuckled, and Siron felt a flicker of satisfaction.
“All done.”
Johnson gathered the seeds into a pile on the table and tossed them out—like they’d never shared that strange, intimate moment. Then he bowed his head again and resumed checking Siron’s questionnaire.
Siron leaned on the armrest, chin in hand, and quietly watched the strange man in front of him.
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