The two left the room after their moment of closeness—nothing more than cuddling—realizing the awkwardness it might cause if someone walked in and saw them like that. And yet, part of them wished they’d stayed, caring little about who might witness it.
They retraced their steps from earlier, starting at the Roman Forum. It was Tanya’s idea to revisit these places at night. Along the way, they passed numerous street performers—mostly musicians strumming acoustic guitars, some singing in a drunken haze. Their bright sounds lured onlookers and passersby to pause and listen, though few paid attention to the meaning behind the amateurish lullabies.
The columns of the Roman Forum were illuminated by powerful spotlights, casting long shadows that didn’t exist in daylight. Nightfall in Rome had never struck Cay as so mesmerizing—the chaotic blend of drunken melodies and fading imperial grandeur felt strangely harmonious.
They smoked by the railing near the giant arch, gazing at two massive columns connected by an ancient bridge. Time and the elements had worn them down, and though erosion would one day turn them to dust, it wouldn’t happen for many human generations. Tanya said nothing, her face turned sideways. Cay couldn’t read her expression, and even if he had tried, he would have been lost in her jade-green and honey-yellow eyes.
Their cigarettes burned down to ash before they left, time slipping by unnoticed. Naturally, they made their way to the Colosseum, close enough that it felt like the next obvious step. Cay had visited twice before, but still followed her without question.
The Colosseum’s facade glowed under harsh floodlights. From inside, beams of light shot into the sky, disappearing into the night like signals to nowhere. Cay found himself thinking of an American football stadium during a night game—except instead of bloodied gladiators, padded men now crashed into each other under bright lights with no fear of death.
Later, they arrived at a Catholic church in the city centre, just in time for an ongoing concert. With no reason to turn away, they stepped through the open gates and took a seat. A nameless tenor filled the sanctuary with resonant power. Then came a woman—broad and commanding in presence. Together they formed a perfect harmony. Their voices echoed through the medium-sized church, making the candles tremble as if the building itself breathed with the music.
After two arias, they slipped out quietly, dropped a few euros in the offerta box, and wandered on—to the Trevi Fountain, Piazza di Spagna, and the Largo di Torre Argentina. The destinations didn’t matter. Cay was enjoying Tanya’s company, and Tanya showed no desire to return to the hostel.
They simply walked—as far as the night would take them—wandering through significant streets, not for the significance, but for the intimacy carried in their steps.752Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡFsqsgJlYvu
Judas could hardly believe what he was seeing. The Rohingya were being assaulted by the armed thugs that called themselves the Myanmar military. There was little resistance—just the cries of children torn from their mothers. Some tried climbing over the fence, only to be dragged down or caught in the fields beyond. No human could outrun a machine fueled by rage and steel.
Volunteers scrambled to intervene, but it was futile. The soldiers were here for a purpose: to round up the refugees and erase them. The volunteers’ efforts—noble as they were—barely slowed the military. The Rohingya saw fleeting comfort, but not salvation.
The militia had no intention of being stopped. They knew there was no one behind the fence with real power. Volunteers could be shot too, and no one would notice. Social media wasn’t strong enough here. This was their territory, and Judas and the others were trespassers—guests in the house of slaughter.
There was no resistance worth mentioning. Mya was the only one who fought like she meant it. She clung to a child as a soldier tried to drag him away. He struck her with the butt of his AK-74. She collapsed into the muddy ground, her right side sinking into the wet earth. Her eyes closed. She looked dead—if not for the still-rosy hue of her skin.
Several people rushed to her side, lifting her carefully from the puddle before it could drown her in mud and her own blood.
Judas broke from his stunned trance once Mya was carried into the medical tent. Inside, it was nearly empty—only a few shell-shocked volunteers remained. Outside, hell unfolded. A mother resisted too long and was beaten into unconsciousness. Soldiers restrained her neighbors as they reached out, desperate to help.
Rage surged in Judas. This was inhuman. The ground was littered with bodies—some breathing, others not. The woman choked on her own blood, her face tilted and resting against her tent’s sagging fabric. Blood spilled from her lips, soaking the earth beneath her.
By now, every living Rohingya had been herded away, except for those scattered on the ground—left behind like discarded belongings. The rest were likely halfway to their final destination.
Volunteers began clearing what was left: bodies, belongings, broken shelters. Mya’s wailing echoed from the tent—animal-like, primal. Judas had never heard anything like it from her before.
As he helped move corpses to the center of the camp, near the largest tent, one body caught his eye. It was small. He moved closer.
It was the boy—the one who’d been pulled from his mother earlier.
Judas stood over him, frozen by an eerie sense of guilt and authority. Gently, he lifted the child. The back of his skull had been crushed—likely by a rifle butt. Fragments of brain matter clung to the jagged wound like torn cloth.
Mark came beside him, silent.
“Make sure to lay him down with his mother,” Judas said, not turning his head.
Mark nodded without a word, his agreement already understood.
“Here—take him,” Judas murmured.
He handed over the boy and stood still, unable to look away from the ruined face of a child whose only crime had been trying to stay with his mother.
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