Chapter 286

With his eyes closed, quietly steadying his breathing, he could hear—beneath the hum of the ventilation fan—the sound of water flowing. Once he focused on the faint vibration of it, the sound of water pushed through the fan noise and grew clearer.

A massive current was moving at a slow, steady pace somewhere in the distance. The sheer scale of it made it feel as if at any moment, the pressure of that water would crush his body and cut off his air.

Where the hell am I.

Siron pressed his ear to the wall in nervous concentration. But it was impossible to determine his location from sound alone. Instead, the water sound dragged an unpleasant memory behind it. As he focused with his eyes closed, an image flashed in his mind like lightning: a tunnel filling with seawater. He opened his eyes, and a daylight-white overhead light stabbed his vision like a needle.

Siron stared up at the ceiling through half-open eyes, then pushed himself upright. His back ached as if splitting apart from lying so long on a flimsy bed—nothing but a concrete slab with a thin topper, perhaps ten centimeters thick. Back when he’d visited Somora Prison, he’d never imagined he’d soon be living like a prisoner again. Life, he thought, was exactly as they said—impossible to predict even one step ahead.

After being betrayed by Lewis and abducted from that pervert’s mansion surrounded by ocean on three sides, he had been brought here with a black cloth covering his head. Thanks to the island and the cursed days he had once spent imprisoned in the swamps with Isaac, he did not fall into panic. But being alone, shut inside a silent solitary cell for over twenty-four hours, made unease accumulate steadily in his chest.

“Lewis, fuck, McCarthy.”

Siron quietly spoke Lewis’s name. That bastard hadn’t shown his face once since the abduction.

“God, I’m going insane.”

Thinking of Lewis made his chest feel crushed by a heavy stone. The resignation and emptiness that had hovered in Lewis’s expression made it impossible to simply hate him.

Lewis had killed two men. Isaac had killed dozens of times more people and slept soundly, and yet Lewis had chosen to become Hybris’s slave because he had killed one “bad person.” The thought of it left a bitter, unpleasant weight in Siron’s chest. It hadn’t been his intention or desire, but he couldn’t claim he was free of responsibility for the state Lewis was in. Siron himself had been the root cause.

He wanted to sit Lewis down, scold him, coax him, and demand to know exactly what had happened. But locked in solitary, he hadn’t seen Lewis, or even a rat.

Nothing had happened yet, but the longer he stayed here, the more certain it became that misfortune was coming. He might be gang-raped by rut-starved alphas, or used in some dangerous experiment, or die entombed in the thick concrete walls.

“Not all of Hybris is bad. They gave us a second chance at life when we should have died long ago.”

Lewis had seen Ted trying to assault him, and yet instead of escaping with him, he had stalled, waiting for Hybris. Even knowing exactly how Siron would be treated here.

Remembering that burned a hole through Siron’s chest, raw and tender. Hatred rose, unbearable—but mingled with that hatred was longing for Baekgyeong and Isaac.

To think that in a moment of danger, the people he most wanted to see were the two who had helped ruin his life. From a top star who dominated the Korean entertainment industry to a sponsored whore, from a responsible, ordinary curry delivery worker to bait for alphas—those two men were somehow still the only place he could lean.

Feeling his throat tighten, Siron blinked furiously at the harsh white light.

Don’t cry. If you cry... you’re letting Hybris win one point.

This was the clash of “good” and “evil.” Siron had decided to fight alone on behalf of all humanity, even if no one acknowledged it. He swallowed the rising sobs and pulled the meal tray he had left near his pillow onto his lap.

Last night he had eaten only the steak and spaghetti, leaving the carrots and broccoli untouched. Sniffing them to check whether they had spoiled, he forced himself to chew through the leftover vegetables, determined not to lose to Hybris.

“Your appetite’s good, I see?”

Siron flinched in surprise at the voice from outside the door and turned. The viewing window of the steel door was wide open. On the other side, a pallid young man with a face like it was washed in chalk was watching him. The face was familiar. Siron quickly recalled where he had seen him.

At the Elm Hotel banquet. A VIP at the same table as the psychological counselor Jackson and the Governor. He had looked so similar to the Governor it was unmistakable. And he had blocked Siron’s path during the terror incident.

His name was Dylan Brown, wasn’t it?

Remembering the name Malcolm Knox had mentioned, Siron held the man’s gaze. The lifeless, glassy eyes—like those of a taxidermied animal—gave him chills.

The man entered the cell, unlocking the door without looking away. He wasn’t alone. A middle-aged man in his late forties with a timid expression followed, carrying an aluminum briefcase and a container the size of a rice cooker. And last, Lewis entered, his expression rigid.

“Lewis!”

Siron shot to his feet, not knowing whether to greet him or grab him by the collar. He ended up standing awkwardly, caught between the two impulses.

But as soon as their eyes met, Lewis turned his head away with a deeply pained grimace. He rubbed his forehead slowly with his palm—as if everything else was just an irritating headache.

The color drained from Siron’s face. The last fragile hope he had been clinging to shattered. After a brief silence, Dylan—watching Siron’s reaction—spoke.

“Don’t take it too personally. Believe it or not, he was really sick because of you.”

“Sick? Because of me? ...Why?”

No answer. Siron asked again.

“How exactly did I make him sick?”

No one answered this time either.

Dylan nudged the tray that had fallen to the floor with the tip of his shoe and spoke with no sign of amusement.

“I was worried you might try going on a hunger strike or something. Seems I was worried for nothing. Good to see you relaxed.”

“Why would I go on a hunger strike? That’d only screw me over. Whoever made the food, tell them it’s fucking salty as hell.”

He pushed the words out sharply, but the provocation left no impression. Dylan only crossed his arms and looked Siron over from head to toe with bored detachment. It was like being appraised as livestock—each body part with its own price.

Unable to endure Dylan’s gaze any longer, Siron looked toward Lewis for help. But Lewis was stone. His expression, worn from pain and exhaustion, held no warmth, no recognition.

“Let’s begin.”

Dylan flicked his fingers in Siron’s direction. Immediately, Lewis strode forward and grabbed Siron’s shirt.

“Hey—what—!”

Lewis didn’t answer. He yanked the shirt upward, stripping it off, and forced Siron face-down on the bed.

Siron struggled, but Lewis pinned his thighs and pressed his shoulders down. It was like being crushed under a hydraulic press—no movement, no breath. His chest tightened; air ran thin. Siron twisted his neck sideways and gasped out:

“Lewis! Fuck! McCarthy! Safe word! SAFE WORD!”

He prayed Lewis would remember the conversation they’d had long ago in the cheap motel bed, in the middle of that unexpected Rut.

“You said I was the last piece of the puzzle you’d been searching for!”

Something in Lewis faltered—just briefly. The pressure on Siron’s shoulders slackened for a moment. Siron tried to push himself up, but Lewis’s weight held him down. After a desperate struggle, all Siron managed was to roll onto his back and face Lewis’s empty expression.

“Lewis, please. Snap out of it. What are you doing to me?”

Even that bare, vulnerable plea did not move him. Siron’s chest burned with betrayal and fear. Tears slipped out.

“Lewis. Please. You were so desperate for me. Did you forget all of that?”

Siron pushed at Lewis’s stomach, chest, face—anywhere—to get him off. Lewis caught his wrists, pinning them easily.

Siron stared at that blank, nihilistic face and shouted:

“You said I was your battery.”

No response.

“You said your heart raced when you saw me. You said you were drawn to me instinctively from the very start.”

Lewis’s silent gaze stayed fixed on him, and Siron’s voice broke into a nasal sob.

“Why are you doing this. You fucking traitor. You even confessed to me!”

The green eyes, shadowed by the light behind him, watched him quietly. Siron blinked, pleading, trying to reach whatever remained inside him.

“That’s enough. Just wrap it up already.”

Dylan, bored, cut in. Lewis snapped irritably at him.

“Stay out of it.”

“What?”

“Wait. I need to correct something.”

Correct? What did he mean? A tiny spark of hope flickered—then died as Lewis spoke.

“I never confessed to you.”