Chapter 278

The old doctor Liam, dozing off on the worn-out sofa, woke with a start at the sudden sound of knocking. He crept toward the door, keeping his footsteps light. Peering through the peephole, he saw nothing—the lens seemed to be blocked by something on the other side.

“It’s me. Open up.”

It was the Asian man’s voice. The one who’d left hours ago to get blood packs had finally returned. The patient’s condition had deteriorated by the minute, now hovering on the verge of death. Liam, who had begun to fear the man had run away, brightened and hastily unlocked the door.

But what greeted him was something completely unexpected.

“Here. Brought it. Check it.”

Liam frowned at the enormous khaki-colored bin blocking the doorway. It was half the size of a van, a wheeled garbage collection container. He pinched his nose against the stench and glared past it at the man standing behind.

“What the hell is that supposed to be? Trash?”

“Not trash. Blood packs.”

“...In a garbage bin?”

“Hold on. I’ll take it out.”

The man pulled the bin slightly back and tilted it to the side. Alarmed that garbage might spill and dirty his entryway, Liam rushed outside—only to realize the problem was far worse than he’d feared.

“Y–you’re insane!”

He stumbled back in shock, collapsing to the floor. Inside the bin was a young man with brown hair.

“People were around. Couldn’t exactly carry a kidnapped guy on my shoulder in broad daylight without someone calling the cops. Don’t worry. I’ll put the bin back where I found it.”

It wasn’t the bin that was the problem. It was the kidnapping. But Liam was too stunned to speak.

“He’s probably type AB. Not sure, so test it first.”

The man hoisted the brown-haired figure over his shoulder. The young man hung limp, unconscious—his face unseen. For a moment he looked dead, but his chest rose and fell faintly.

The man who had left, saying something suspicious about “going to get blood packs,” had indeed returned with blood—for transfusion—but not in bags. He had brought a human being full of fresh blood.

“What are you staring at? Test him and prep the transfusion.”

“Are you out of your mind?”

“Perfectly sane.”

“You kidnapped someone to draw blood? That’s your plan?”

“I’m just taking a little. He’ll live. But check the type first.”

He waved a hand as if the whole thing bored him—then suddenly stiffened, struck by a darker thought.

“He’s not dead, is he? The patient, while I was gone?”

“He’s still breathing... barely.”

“Then we’re fine. Move!”

Liam debated calling the police. But he thought of the potbellied officers at the Gamthiva Island station—corrupt men who routinely extorted him for hush money in exchange for ignoring his unlicensed practice. If he called them, they’d just pocket the $230,000 the man had already paid him. Deciding against it, he rose.

“Let’s get it over with.”

He brought them inside and locked the door tight, then laid out a simple blood-type testing kit—a white plastic card marked with four circles: A, B, O, Rh.

“Put him here.”

Unfolding another cot beside the patient, Liam gestured for the man to lay the brown-haired stranger down. The young donor looked to be in his early twenties, a white male.

“Who is he?”

“Don’t need to know. He’s sedated—won’t wake for at least ten hours.”

Liam clicked his tongue, pried open the man’s eyelid, checked his pupil reaction, and muttered reluctantly, “This isn’t free. I’m billing for the blood test, transfusion, everything.”

“Yeah, yeah. Just hurry.”

“You don’t even have cash.”

“I’ll wire it. Just move your ass.”

Startled by the sharp command, Liam hurriedly began the test. He wiped the man’s fingertip with alcohol and pricked it with a lancet, then dabbed blood onto each of the four labeled circles. A moment later, the result appeared.

“O positive.”

The man gave a short, bitter laugh and glared down at the unconscious donor.

“AB my ass. Lying bastard.”

The doctor glared back, indignant.

“I told you I’m O-type! You could’ve just used my blood. What were you thinking, kidnapping someone? That’s a real felony—this isn’t the same league as unlicensed practice!”

“Pot calling the kettle black. You break the law, I break the law—don’t act like we’re different. And besides, it’s not human blood we need. It’s similar enough to fool a test kit, but it’s not the same.”

“What the hell does that mean?”

The man sighed, forcing himself to explain.

“Think of chimpanzees. They have A and O blood types too. But if you put that blood in a human, they die. Similar, but not the same.”

Liam snorted.

“So you’re saying your blood’s like a chimp’s?”

The man’s patience snapped. His cold stare silenced Liam instantly.

“Enough. Shut up and start the transfusion.”

Cowled by that deadly look, Liam obeyed. He inserted the needle into the donor’s vein and turned on the pump. The metal piston groaned as it pressed the tube; red blood surged downward in jerks before settling into a steady flow toward Isaac’s body.

“Never transfused sedated blood before,” Liam muttered, frowning at the thin red line.

The man stood beside him, eyes narrowed at the pale, corpse-like patient. “How long does he need it?”

“Six hours minimum, but considering the donor’s state—two hours, max. He’s still human, you know.”

“And if I don’t ‘consider’ that?”

Liam grimaced. “What do you mean, don’t consider it? You planning to drain him dry like some vampire?”

The man rolled his eyes. Maybe. His expression shifted, calculating, and then he gave up pretending. Pulling out his phone, he said flatly, “You won’t have to deal with the body. I’ll clean up. Just give me your account number and stay out of it.”

Liam, half-distrusting, gave him the number of a fake account he’d opened under an alias. Moments later, his phone chimed. He checked—and blinked. The transfer was real. The amount was ten times what he’d charged for surgery. He counted the digits three times, eyes wide.

“Well? Enough for you?”

Liam, all guilt and greed, only coughed weakly. If he didn’t pull another stupid stunt, that money would be more than enough to retire comfortably.

He eyed the man warily as he pulled a coil of rope from his bag. “I don’t want to be an accomplice. I’ll... just step outside for a bit—”

“Get in the closet.”

“What?”

“You think I’m letting you walk out? Be cooperative for one day.”

The man snatched Liam’s phone, smashed it, dragged him to the bedroom, and shoved him into the oak wardrobe.

“Wait, I’m claustrophobic—!”

“Then deal with it. Make noise, and you’ll never make another sound again.”

Ignoring the frantic thuds and muffled screams, Baekgyeong tied the handles shut and left the room. He rummaged through the fridge, found some stale rye bread and cheese, and forced them down with tap water. But no matter how much he drank, the burning thirst wouldn’t leave. He gulped like a sinner trapped in hell, gasping for breath as he straightened up.

He {N•o•v•e•l•i•g•h•t} had lost Siron.

The thought hit him like a plunge into a black whirlpool.

When he’d opened the tunnel’s blast door, a surge of seawater had knocked him unconscious for a few seconds. The salt clawed his throat, the pain in his lungs ripped him awake. When he resurfaced, Isaac’s flashlight beam spun through the dark water, tracing every cramped corner of the flooded shaft.

Isaac was already outside the tunnel. The water glowed red, thinned like diluted blood. Siron was nowhere to be seen. The world went silent—the hammering in his chest stopped cold. Then, with a flicker of hope that maybe Siron had escaped first, it started again.

Gasping for air, Baekgyeong fought his way out of the passage. He caught sight of the rope attached to a cable and pulled the lever of his buoyancy tube, breaking the surface.

The boat was still there—thank God. But Siron wasn’t. He asked Isaac, who lay collapsed on deck, but the man didn’t even lift his head. The wind howled; waves towered higher and higher. If not for the sudden arrival of a helicopter, Baekgyeong would have believed Siron had drowned.

The searchlight swept across the distant sea, revealing a faint shape hauled onto another boat—a person and something red and round beside them. Siron, without doubt. He’d survived, clinging to his flotation tube, only to be found by them.

Panic slammed into Baekgyeong. As he moved to untie the mooring rope, a wave capsized the boat. Dragged deep into the sea, he clawed his way up again, but Isaac was gone, and Siron had vanished into the storm. He could only watch helplessly as the helicopter lights receded into the distance.

All around him, faint lights flickered on the vast dark water like fireflies. He realized they came from their pursuers. But as the weather worsened, they eventually gave up the chase. Their true target, it seemed, had been Omega all along.

They left him there—cursing, raging, vomiting seawater and despair—alone on the black sea.