Chapter 209

The nameless man who had tried to kidnap Siron was dead.

Siron assumed he had died first from the car crash, and second from tripping in the drainage ditch as he chased Siron, striking his head on the ground.

Isaac, however, found the death suspicious. Corn was a crop that left much residue behind after harvest. The byproducts cut down with the stalks were left piled thick across the field, to be used as fertilizer for the following year. It was soft, spongy, cushioning enough to absorb even heavy impacts underfoot.

The crash scene itself raised doubts. The car had swerved once left, then turned right, crossing the roadside embankment before rolling into the cornfield. The long skid marks—over thirty meters—made that much clear.

Even if the car had been going 100 km/h, the length of the skid marks meant the rollover speed was likely under 70 km/h. Considering the road, the tires, and the level of damage Siron suffered, the actual impact velocity had probably been much lower.

That a man was thrown from the vehicle and killed—especially given that he was an alpha—was too extreme an outcome for the scale of the accident.

On the surface, though, it looked like a clear accident. The brake marks right before the crash made it appear an obvious case of poor driving.

The truck was burned, leaving no sign of a passenger. The hay spread thick across the field like carpet erased any tracks from Siron or Isaac. With the circumstances of death seemingly obvious, there was no reason for forensic investigators to be dispatched. Local sheriffs and a coroner would close the case quickly.

They left the body where it lay and returned to the motel. They made no effort to hide it. The more one tampered with evidence, the more suspicious traces were left behind.

They agreed to tell the motel owner it had been nothing but a scuffle among the three of them. Cleaning up the wrecked room, they paid the owner enough to allay suspicion. By noon the next day, they were back on the road.

Coincidentally, their route passed the crash site. By then, the body had already been taken away. Instead of a police line, red plastic cones surrounded the charred remains of the pickup. Siron’s face tensed as he looked out the back window at the scene vanishing behind them, then lowered his gaze.

From the driver’s seat, Baekgyeong kept checking the rearview mirror at Siron, who sat slouched in the back.

“He got what he deserved. Stop thinking about it.”

When Siron didn’t answer, Baekgyeong’s face hardened with resolution.

“If this blows up, I’ll take the fall. So quit worrying.”

Siron had been ready to scold him—Don’t even joke about that—but hesitated. Baekgyeong was tougher than him, and had lived through a correctional facility. He might actually endure prison better.

“...Fine. Let’s do that.”

The unexpected agreement made Baekgyeong forget himself for a moment, staring dumbly. Siron gave him a faint smile, as if encouraging him.

“They say the one who’s been beaten takes it best. You’ve done time before, so you’d handle it better than me.”

“You serious?”

“You know I’m a serious person.”

Baekgyeong let out a dry laugh, the corner of his mouth twitching. If Siron could still crack jokes in the middle of this mess, maybe he was doing better than he looked. Glancing at Siron’s wry smile, Baekgyeong chuckled.

“Unbelievable. It was a protective facility, not prison.”

“You were locked up for a crime. Same difference.”

“Christ, Yoon Siron, you’re ridiculous.”

Grumbling but not displeased, Baekgyeong turned the radio dial, searching for a clean signal. Eventually he landed on an AM country station.

I head east without a goodbye, leaving home in my rusty truck...

As the twang of the country singer filled the car, Siron still felt as if last night had never ended.

“Oh, that reminds me. He made me take something.”

The car jolted, brakes screeching. Baekgyeong whipped around.

“What? A drug?”

“He forced it down. ...Seemed like a heat drug.”

Isaac turned, his face darkening.

“Are you saying NeoPeak?”

Siron met his eyes coldly. He couldn’t open his heart to Isaac, not after Isaac had failed to appear in Siron’s hour of danger. Whatever his reasons for not protecting him, Isaac hadn’t offered even an excuse.

Looking away, Siron muttered:

“I’m not sure. I swallowed before I could even see what it was. But I never felt a thing.”

Baekgyeong frowned.

“Why didn’t it affect you?”

“Maybe because compared to an omega’s heat cycle, the drug was too weak?”

His cynical tone made Baekgyeong snort.

“Other than that? Anything I should know?”

Siron didn’t want to face the memories. But if he avoided them, they’d fade. Listening to the country guitar drift from the radio, he forced himself to recall.

“He said he had some kind of disease.”

Isaac and Baekgyeong spoke at once.

“A disease?”

“Yeah. He said when it flares up, he can feel every single particle of pheromone. Couldn’t stand the smell of alphas or Etas. That’s why he lived out in some Texas backwater, where there was nothing to smell.”

“So hypersensitive to pheromones.”

“Come to think of it, he said he smelled me from far away. Over two kilometers, from the motel to his house.”

Baekgyeong and Siron both fell silent at the strange sense of déjà vu.

“Like a bloodhound.”

“Like Lewis.”

Both turned to Isaac. He was listening in silence, his face deep in thought.

“You told us before you’d never met anyone who could track pheromones. But now we’ve met two. That’s more than coincidence. You sure it’s safe to head back to Helsota?”

Baekgyeong’s tone was mocking, as if Isaac himself had designed such alphas. Isaac shook his head, replying without pause:

“Cases of X-Type Hypersensory Receptor Syndrome are extremely rare.”

“X... what?”

“X-Type Syndrome. A disorder where the sympathetic nervous system activates far beyond normal range.”

“And what kind of problems does that cause?”

“You can’t predict their lifespan.”

Siron’s expression tightened.

“What do you mean, can’t predict?”

Isaac met his troubled gaze.

“It means the risk of sudden death is very high.”

They stayed in Houston, Texas, for two days.

During that time, they disguised the car, wrapping it with a logo for Amazonia Home Services, a fake appliance installation company, and bought official license plates from a broker.

Outside the window, the scenery stretched on endlessly. Behind the wheel, Baekgyeong was growing weary of America’s sheer size. The road was monotonous, the landscape unchanging, the hours spent driving a torture.

Isaac sat in the passenger seat, examining Baekhee’s phone. After poring over the first folder for a long time, he said:

“A manufacturing formula.”

From the backseat, Siron groaned and lifted himself slowly, asking:

“A formula for what?”

“A document listing the composition and dosage of pharmaceuticals. In short, the recipe for a drug.”

Baekgyeong asked seriously:

“The suppressant formula?”

“Yes.”

The confirmation made Baekgyeong’s lips curl into a bitter smile. His mother had designed all of this, assuming her own death. She had known all along that anything tied to the suppressant was dangerous enough to cost her life.

From the back, Siron leaned against Baekgyeong’s seat, resting a hand on his shoulder.

“Don’t even dream about revenge.”

“What, you worried about me?”

Pulling away, Siron answered in a dry voice:

“Yeah. I’m sorry she died, but... you’re not someone who can dream about revenge.”

Baekgyeong snorted, short and sharp. Siron’s words were cruel, but his eyes glared at the back of Baekgyeong’s head, filled with fear.

“Revenge or not—they’re hunting me anyway.”

Glancing at Siron’s frightened face, Baekgyeong nodded toward the phone in Isaac’s hand.

“Probably because of that. They wanted me to crack the password.”