L*st and Death

“Mr. Siron, today...”

“Yes.”

Siron quickly straightened up in his seat.

“You scheduled your appointment for an earlier time today.”

“It’s a holiday. My boss said he’s closing the shop for three days.”

Today was Eid al-Fitr, a holiday observed in Pakistan. It marked the end of Ramadan—a month of fasting and five daily prayers—and ushered in a three-day festival of abundance. Mr. Iqbal, his boss, hadn’t forgotten the holidays of his homeland, even here in the United States.

“If it’s three days off, your boss must be Muslim.”

“Oh, you know your stuff. He’s from Pakistan.”

Strictly speaking, Iqbal was more of an atheist-leaning Muslim. While studying in the US, he’d married a German atheist against his family’s wishes. Influenced by his wife, his children didn’t believe in Allah either. He neither fasted during Ramadan nor prayed—but he closed the restaurant for three days just to take the kids on a trip.

Siron had only managed to keep working at Curry King thanks to Iqbal’s secular views. If Iqbal had been devout, he would’ve kicked Siron out on the day of the interview, the moment he confessed his scandal.

“Is there any connection between eating a lot of curry and erectile dysfunction?”

Having finished reviewing the questionnaire, Dr. Johnson shook his head.

“None. In fact, fenugreek in curry may actually help increase libido. Now, before we proceed with the second injection, let’s talk about any abnormal symptoms.”

He spoke with a serious expression.

“So, to summarize: you’re still experiencing no erections, including morning wood or arousal-based ones. From day one to two, you felt mild cold symptoms. From day two to seven, a throbbing sensation in the scrotum and perineum. You also reported an improvement in urinary frequency and reduced pain during urination starting from the first day.”

“Yeah. That alone made life a lot easier.”

“You said you felt a burning sensation across the scrotum and perineum after the injection—can you describe that in more detail?”

“Uh... there’s this dull throbbing deep inside the perineum.”

Dr. Johnson waited, his face showing he expected a more precise explanation. Siron hesitated—he didn’t want to go into detail about the discomfort in that area. But since this was a clinical trial being conducted on his body, if it was a side effect, they’d have to stop immediately. So he forced himself to speak.

“It’s not too bad, but... I feel a bit of itching in the prostate and, um... colon area.”

Dr. Johnson paused in thought, then said quietly:

“That area can only be accessed through the rectum, so it’s normally hard to pinpoint. But you seem unusually specific. Have you had a prostate exam before?”

“Uh... yeah. Yeah, I have.”

“But you marked on the questionnaire that you’d never visited a urologist.”

Caught in the trap of the physician’s subtle interrogation, Siron averted his eyes, face turning red.

“Falsifying your answers, even if unintentional, increases the likelihood of failure in the clinical trial.”

Though Johnson spoke calmly, Siron was now overwhelmed by the shame of having lied—and the fear that he might be forced to confess to the past as well.

But on the other hand... Siron found himself thinking that maybe only urologists could address the diseases that arose from reckless sex with any rational perspective. Maybe he’d get some free advice out of this.

That pragmatic thought pushed his lips open.

“I didn’t go to a urologist. I just... have some experience. That’s how I know.”

“You mean, you’ve had anal sex?”

“Ahem. Uh. Mm. Yes.”

“If you were aware of that area during intercourse—enough to feel stimulation in your colon—then your body must have taken quite a toll. Did you experience pleasure from it?”

“...No.”

“That makes sense. The colon isn’t an erogenous zone. So, did your urinary symptoms start in childhood?”

“No. It suddenly started in my early to mid-twenties.”

Dr. Johnson made a note in his notebook, using that unfamiliar script Siron couldn’t decipher.

“It’s highly likely you had acute prostatitis, which then developed into a chronic condition due to lack of treatment. The urinary frequency, erectile dysfunction, and premature ejaculation are most likely all connected to that. Have you ever had unprotected anal sex, or inserted a foreign object into your urethra?”

Dr. Johnson’s calm question made Siron’s face flush again. One man’s face flickered into his mind—a face that had constantly tested his limits, made him beg to be freed from pleasure, desperate and miserable.

Siron imagined scribbling all over that bastard’s photo with a permanent marker, trying to mentally erase his existence.

“My partner inserted something into my urethra.”

“Something?”

Siron had decided to be honest—but when it came time to speak, he hesitated.

“...A thin stainless steel rod, about a handspan long.”

Dr. Johnson frowned, a fine crease forming between his brows.

“Was it just the urethra that was stimulated, or did it reach the bladder and prostate?”

“I’m not sure, but... he put it in deep.”

“I see.”

Dr. Johnson let out a light sigh. Siron dropped his head, wishing he could crawl into a hole and disappear.

If the doctor had shown even the slightest interest in his reckless sex life, Siron would’ve probably spat out some nonsense to change the subject. But the doctor only gave him a gentle reprimand, which made Siron feel safe enough to open up.

“So I probably got infected back then, and that’s why I’m like this now, right?”

“That’s very likely. From now on, if you plan to engage in urethral stimulation, do it with a skillful boyfriend who takes hygiene seriously.”

“......I’m not planning to do that anymore.”

He hadn’t even told him not to do it—just to do it better, with a capable boyfriend. Just when Siron had started to trust him, the doctor came out with unprofessional advice and an unwanted opinion. What’s more, there was a hint of amusement in his voice.

“Why do you assume it was with a man? I mean, in today’s world it feels weird to say this, but... I don’t like being mistaken for gay.”

At Siron’s irritated rebuke, Dr. Johnson’s expression slowly hardened. He looked genuinely apologetic.

“I wasn’t thinking. ...I didn’t consider the possibility that, if I were gay, you might find that unpleasant.”

Siron was speechless. Dr. Johnson looked him directly in the eyes, meeting the faint flicker of turmoil in his gaze.

“If I made you uncomfortable, I apologize.”

“Ah—no! I’m sorry.”

“Mmm.”

Was that a yes? A no? That vague reply left Siron feeling unsettled.

Then Johnson continued.

“If you’re sorry...”

“.......”

“Never mind.”

“What?”

What never mind?! He hadn’t heard a damn thing! Why stop mid-sentence? Why leave it hanging like that?!

“What? What is it?”

“It’s nothing. You said you’re not gay, so... let’s pretend I didn’t say anything.”

If you’re sorry, buy me coffee.

If you’re sorry, let’s have dinner sometime.

If you’re sorry, go on a date with me.

If you’re sorry, let me do a prostate exam.

If you’re sorry, may I skillfully stimulate your urethra in a sterile environment?

Siron was overcome with the kind of curiosity that could drive a man insane. What was Dr. Johnson going to ask? He probably would’ve said no to whatever it was—but he was dying to know.

Siron was often quick to pick up on signs of affection from others, even from the tiniest hints. But Dr. Johnson’s signals were completely unreadable. Still, if this alpha male in front of him was interested in him... he’d probably feel a little smug.

But Dr. Johnson shut that down completely, cutting off any chance of pride or delusion with his clinical tone.

“Based on your current condition, I believe we can proceed with the second injection.”

Siron, sensing that professional tone again, asked hesitantly:

“So... the itching feeling—that’s not a side effect?”

“It’s within the normal response range. No need for medical intervention. If you prefer a more cautious and precise approach, we could extract a tissue sample from the rectal mucosa to test the prostate—”

“Ah, no. I’ll just take the shot.”

“Very well. We’ll draw blood and then administer the medication.”

Following Dr. Johnson to the treatment room, Siron offered up his arm for the blood draw. There were more specimen bottles than last time. The ampule was larger, too.

That meant: more blood to extract, more drug to inject.

As the needle pierced his skin—cold from the alcohol swab—Siron flinched, frowning slightly, and forced himself to think of something else.

“How about the other participants? Are there any side effects? Or... improvements in sexual function?”

Dr. Johnson, putting aside his robotic manner for a moment, gave a flat laugh.

“Well. I heard all the other lab rats died. Except you.”

“Ha. Ha. Ha.”

Was he unaware that saying shit like that made him sound like a psycho?

If Siron hadn’t experienced real improvement with his urinary symptoms, he might have taken that joke seriously and freaked out. But Siron wasn’t the type to stop at one joke. If someone gave him a first verse, he had to go for the second and third.

“Then I must be the luckiest rat out of all 999.”

“Mm. Or perhaps... you’ll become the only successful case among them.”

“That’d be great. I hope I become the one test rat that successfully reproduces. ...What?”

It seemed Johnson couldn’t think of a witty comeback to Siron’s joke about reproduction. He just stared at him oddly, like Siron had suddenly become a stranger.

After a moment of strained silence, a faint smile finally tugged at his lips.

“Yes. I’d be quite curious to see the face of a child who looks like you.”

Johnson divided Siron’s blood into sample vials, then filled the syringe with the drug.

He firmly grasped Siron’s arm, pushed the sleeve up past the shoulder, and disinfected the skin.

“Relax. It’ll hurt less that way.”

The doctor’s hand on the inside of his arm was uncomfortably warm. But as the needle punctured his skin, all Siron’s nerves focused on the pain—until that discomfort melted away, forgotten.

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