He did not understand what it meant, but the feeling of uneasiness did not leave him. Suddenly the crowd around him began to stir. Jerome turned and noticed a man standing out from the crowd. It was an old man in a white coat, with a dark cap on his head, who was confidently walking straight towards him. His face was weathered, with deep wrinkles, and his eyes were alive and bright, despite the obvious signs of old age.
He came up close and without any introduction began to tell:
"You know how a black man and a Jew once met?" The old man spoke with a clear accent, his voice was low and slightly hoarse. Jerome didn't know how to react to this. For a moment he froze, trying to understand what was happening.
"Sorry, I'm not sure I understand what you mean," Jerome replied, trying not to show that he was uncomfortable with the situation. He stepped back slightly, feeling his anxiety growing. Why did this old man approach him? Why did he start the conversation so confidently?
The old man did not pay attention to his words and continued as if he had not heard:
"The Negro, of course, asks: 'Why is the Jew unlucky?' And he answers: 'Because you, brother, don't believe in luck yourself!'" He paused, looked at Jerome with his piercing eyes and grinned.
Jerome frowned and walked quickly away from the old man, his thoughts in disarray. He couldn't shake the feeling that something strange was happening, that his meeting with this man was no accident. The anecdote the old man had told seemed out of place, and there was something in his eyes that reminded Jerome of a mosaic painting, each detail carrying a hidden meaning.
He quickened his pace, feeling the tension rising. As soon as the old man had spoken his last sentence, Jerome knew he didn't want to stay in this area. He turned up the collar of his coat to keep the rain out and, without looking back, continued on his way, away from these people and their strange conversations.
The crowd gathered at the shop window was left behind, and a few minutes later he found himself at the supermarket, where there were many more people. Everything was much quieter here: ordinary shoppers, couples, people queuing for bread and milk. Jerome paused for a moment to look around, feeling his heart calm down a little. Everything seemed normal – everyday.
But the inner unrest did not go away. Who was this old man? Why did he approach him? And what did his words mean? Jerome knew that these questions would not leave him alone until he found the answers.
Jerome paused at the supermarket window, unable to tear his eyes away from all the riches. The shelves were lined with cheeses he might have tried if he had the money, and sausages that smelled so delicious his stomach rumbled with hunger. He stood transfixed, looking at the packages of various delicacies, thinking how long it had been since he had eaten such simple and delicious food. There was too much stress in his life, too much intelligence work, to enjoy something so trivial.
But still, realizing that with so many temptations, he could easily spend all the money in a couple of minutes, Jerome quickly looked away from the display case and looked at his wallet. Empty. Not a single Roman coin. All he had left was waiting for Jo to return and give him his money back. And she had left early this morning, without explanation, as always leaving him in the dark. He had no idea where she had gone, or why she had left him with Delia.
"It's okay, I'll wait," Jerome thought, but the feeling of emptiness in his stomach did not go away. He again stole a glance at the shop windows and again felt hunger taking hold of him.
The silence of the supermarket seemed too loud, and the smell of food was irritatingly sweet. Jerome didn't even know how long he stood there, oblivious to everything. Deep down, he wanted to forget about everything and just spend a few hours in this corner, away from everything that was bothering him. But at some point, reason took over. He felt that he couldn't afford to waste time.
Jerome turned to leave, but suddenly a low voice with a strong accent called out to him:
"Ragazzo! Aspetta un momento!"
A policeman stood before him, a burly middle-aged man with a moustache and a serious look. He pointed at Jerome and then motioned for him to stop.
"I... I didn't do anything," Jerome tried to say, but the policeman didn't understand his words. Instead, he waved his hand briefly and harshly, pointing toward the road.
"Come with me."
Jerome wanted to object, but he understood that the situation had already gotten out of control. The policeman did not retreat and even tightened his grip, slightly pushing the boy in the right direction.
"Fine, just fine," Jerome muttered, reluctantly obeying. He knew that any attempt at resistance would only make the situation worse.
Ten minutes later they were at the police station. Jerome was seated on a hard metal chair in front of an old wooden desk, and a policeman called over a colleague, animatedly discussing something with him. The words were sharp and fast, and Jerome only stared gloomily ahead, not understanding a word.
"Squeeze, rajazzo, hai a documento?" the second policeman finally asked him, pointing at Jerome.
The boy understood only one word - "documento" - and shook his head.
"No... I don't have any ID on me," he muttered, hoping that at least someone here knew English.
The policemen looked at each other. They obviously didn't understand what he was saying, but that didn't stop them. They started asking questions - long, incomprehensible phrases in Italian. Jerome just sat there with a tense look and shook his head, showing that he didn't understand anything.
"Non parlo italiano!" he shouted, hoping to somehow attract attention to himself.
"Ah... inglese," one of the policemen drawled. Then he pointed at his colleague and quickly left the room.
The remaining policeman glanced at Jerome, then sat down opposite him, leaning his elbows on the table.
"Are you a tourist?" he asked, pronouncing each word slowly and clearly.
Jerome sighed.
"Yes. Tourist. I was just walking, and then your friend dragged me here."
The policeman nodded, but he clearly understood only individual words. The awkward pause dragged on.
A few minutes later, the first officer returned to the room, followed by a woman in a formal suit, who entered and sat down opposite him. Her neatly pulled-back hair, perfectly pressed suit, and smooth movements betrayed a professional who was used to being in control of any situation. But she did not deign to give the boy a single glance, instead placing a folder on the table, opening it, and reaching for an old corded telephone standing on the edge of the table.
She spoke in Italian, her voice low and confident. Jerome listened, but the words came out as white noise to him, not a hint of English. He glanced at the policeman standing by the door like a sentry. The policeman was staring at nothing, his arms crossed over his chest, and he made no attempt to speak.
"Well, great," Jerome thought, feeling his irritation growing. "Sorry..." he tried to interrupt the woman's conversation, but she didn't even pay attention to him.
Soon her conversation became more animated. She was clearly arguing with someone on the phone. Her voice rose and fell, and her tone became increasingly harsh. Jerome felt his patience wearing thin.
"Hey," he finally blurted out, rising from his chair. "Can someone explain to me what's going on here?!"
The policeman at the door immediately responded:
"Siediti!" he growled and pointed to the chair, forcing Jerome to sit back down.
"Calm down, okay? I don't understand anything!" Jerome said, leaning back and putting his hands behind his head.
The woman finally ended the call and hung up, slowly turning her head toward Jerome. She just stared at him for a minute, as if trying to study every feature of his face. Then she closed the folder and pointed her finger at the boy.
"Chi sei?" she asked.
"I don't understand what you're talking about," Jerome replied, spreading his hands.
The woman frowned, then said something quickly to the policeman. He nodded and left the room, leaving them alone.
"Ascolta, ragazzo," she began, slowing down slightly. "Questo è molto serio. Sei solo? Dove sono i tuoi genitori?"
Jerome let out a choked sigh.
"I don't speak Italian! English? Do you understand?" His voice grew louder.
At the same time, he watched with surprise the woman's features, which were strict, but at the same time refined. There was something in her manner that reminded him of Karen York, Delia's mother. The same cold elegance, the same commanding gaze. He even felt a strange excitement, as if she could unravel all his secrets with her presence alone.
But this moment did not last long. A young man in casual clothes entered the room. A scarf tied around his neck and a slight smile on his face betrayed his freedom-loving nature.
"Hello," he said, nodding slightly at Jerome. "I'm Alessandro, your translator."
Jerome immediately felt relief.
"Great! Finally someone speaks English."
Alessandro grinned and sat down next to the woman. She began to speak in quick, clear sentences, her voice was commanding, and even without translation it was clear: she demanded an answer.
"She asks who you are and what you were doing in the supermarket area," Alessandro explained.
"I'm a tourist," Jerome replied with a slight smile. "Just taking a walk. Rome is a beautiful city, you know."
Alessandro relayed his words, but the woman was clearly dissatisfied. Her gaze became even more intense.
"Where are you staying?" Alessandro translated the next question.
Jerome felt his insides tighten. He couldn't give the address where he, Jo, and Delia were staying. It was strictly forbidden.
"With friends," he answered briefly, trying to look confident.
The woman muttered something under her breath, then abruptly slammed the folder in front of her shut and stood up. Her stern gaze lingered on Jerome for a moment longer before she headed for the door.
"You can go," said Alessandro, translating her words. "But remember that you are now registered with the police."
Jerome felt a lump of ice roll into his stomach. He tried to remain calm, but his hands clenched into fists.
"On the books? For what?" he asked Alessandro, looking at him defiantly.
Alessandro spread his hands, clearly trying to smooth things over.
"Relax, boy. It's just a formality. You're a stranger here, you were acting a little strange, that's all. But I advise you to be careful."
"Be careful? In what? I was just walking! This is a tourist city, isn't it?"
Alessandro chuckled, but his gaze was serious. Jerome noticed how his eyes narrowed, and the smile did not reach his eyes.
"That's true," Alessandro replied, adjusting his uniform. "But you should be more careful. Sometimes, even in tourist areas, situations may arise where it's important to be careful."
Jerome felt anger rising. He tried to hide it, but he couldn't help it:
"I was just walking down the street! This isn't some kind of forbidden area, right?"
Alessandro shrugged slightly and looked at Jerome as if he had just said something completely ridiculous.
"I can't go into details," he said, bowing his head slightly. "My status doesn't allow it. And if the police were to talk to citizens about trifles, that would be stupid, you must admit. We can't waste time on everything."
Jerome tried to understand the meaning of these words, but it seemed even more confusing to him. He wanted to say something, but he realized that words would not help. He looked at the guard who stood behind him, his brows furrowed, and sighed quietly.
"So I'm just supposed to leave now?" Jerome said, holding back his anger.
Alessandro nodded without saying a word, then gestured toward the door. He was hard, but there was something in his face that made Jerome feel guilty about something.
"You can go," he said shortly. "But remember, you're on the police books now. Better stay away from suspicious places."
Jerome did not know what he had broken, but the feeling of unease did not leave him. Alessandro silently accompanied him to the door, and without saying another word, opened it.
Jerome stepped outside and his gaze immediately fell on the world around him. The weather was rainy and the street lights were reflected in the puddles. He sighed and looked back at the guard who followed him with a mute expression. This was a man with no hint of empathy.
"Is everything okay?" Jerome asked, unable to stand the silence.
The guard said nothing, only loudly tapping his heels on the pavement. Jerome felt as if he was on a firing squad, as if there were consequences awaiting him that he couldn't even comprehend. But to his surprise, the guard didn't stop him. He simply silently indicated that Jerome was now free.
The boy sighed and walked, trying to get out of this foggy, rainy Rome as quickly as possible. His steps echoed loudly, and the gloomy facades of the houses, under a layer of rain, seemed alien and incomprehensible to him.
As he walked a few blocks, he increasingly felt the tension from the recent interrogation and the cold gaze of the guard gradually disappear. His steps became lighter, his thoughts calmer. The further he walked, the more quickly he forgot about the police station and this whole strange incident. Eventually, he found himself in a more familiar area, where there were cafes, shops, and people calmly going about their business.
The anxiety evaporated, and Jerome felt like he could breathe again. He even relaxed a little, looking back at his unfamiliar, but no longer so frightening street. When he returned to the house, his steps were careful but confident. He tried to throw that unpleasant incident with the police out of his mind and focus on the current moment. He quickly entered through the front door, taking off his coat, but as soon as he crossed the threshold, he felt a strange silence.
"Delia?" he called, frowning slightly.
Silence answered him. He didn't hear the usual noise from the kitchen, didn't notice anyone moving in the other room. Jerome frowned and headed for the living room, feeling anxiety growing in his chest. He didn't even know what was bothering him so much. Maybe it was because of everything that had happened to him on the street, or maybe it was a premonition of something more serious.
As he entered the living room, his gaze immediately fell on the table. On it lay an envelope, neatly folded, as if it had been left specially for him. Jerome walked up to the table and, without thinking, took it. Inside was an ordinary piece of paper, but something in this simple gesture made his heart beat faster.
He unfolded the paper. It was written in large letters: "To a Naive Fool." Jerome froze for a moment, feeling the blood drain from his face. His fingers trembled as he continued to read.
"I took my little sister with me, don't look for her, idiot, because she never existed," the boy read out loud.
Under these words was the signature: "Alexander York."
The boy felt a cold fear creep into his chest, making him grit his teeth. He didn't know what it meant, but one thing was clear: Delia was gone. And the person who had left that message wasn't just some random acquaintance. He knew her, knew him.
"No..." Jerome whispered softly, reading the note over and over again, but the meaning did not change. He felt his mind begin to slip into chaos. Alexander York? Who is it? Why did Delia leave with him?
Unable to hold the paper any longer, Jerome suddenly tore it into pieces in rage. His head was full of thoughts, and each of them consumed him entirely. He blamed himself for not being able to prevent Delia's disappearance, for his indecisiveness and helplessness. But his thoughts were interrupted by a sharp sound that woke him from his foggy state. The front door of the house creaked open, and Jo entered the room.
Jerome immediately jumped up to her, ready to pour out all his questions, to tell her about the note and what he had just experienced. But as soon as he opened his mouth, Jo made an unexpected move. She slowly pulled her hand to her face, and suddenly, with surprising ease, removed the mask. Jerome, dumbfounded by this gesture, froze in mid-air. He stepped back, feeling his chest squeezed with horror.
It wasn't Jo's face that was hidden behind the mask, but a man's. A man with a piercing gaze that took in all of him in an instant. It was icy, hard, and there was not a drop of kindness in it. Jerome froze, and his heart stopped. He recognized this man: Damien Thorn.
"No, it's impossible..." Jerome muttered, not believing his eyes.
Damien Thorn. A politician who had been presumed dead for years. His death was shrouded in mystery, and official sources said it had occurred under unclear circumstances. But this man stood before him, alive and with a smile that was hardly kind.
Jerome stood there, paralyzed, unable to take his eyes off that alien face. With each passing moment, fear filled him more and more, his chest tightened, and his heart beat wildly. He felt the air in the room grow heavy, and everything around him seemed to shrink, leaving only him and this man who was at once familiar and completely alien.
Damien Thorn took his time speaking, his eyes continued to roll, watching Jerome's every move as if he was just a puppet in his hands. His gaze was cold and calculating, there was no compassion in it, only a burning curiosity.
Jerome felt his body literally lose its support when Damien Thorn slowly and surely moved towards him. There was something sinister in his eyes that made the blood run cold. The boy tried to retreat, but his legs did not obey him. He knew that something terrible was about to happen, but he did not have time to prepare. Fear paralyzed him, and the only thing he managed to say was:
"You... you're Damien Thorn? But... you're dead! You... You can't be alive!"
Thorn didn't answer. Instead, in one movement, he tore off the Jo mask he had just entered the room with and threw it to the floor. The mask seemed to fall through the air with some unusual ease, as if it itself were part of this obscurantist spectacle.
Jerome couldn't believe his eyes. The Jo mask he had seen just a moment ago was now lying on the floor, and in its place was this face, familiar and alien at the same time. He couldn't concentrate, his vision was starting to swim, and his heart was beating madly.
Damien Thorn continued to move, slowly, his steps heavy and measured, as if he already knew that Jerome would not be able to escape. With each step he came closer, and Jerome, despite all his efforts, could not move from the spot. Darkness began to appear before his eyes, and a feeling grew inside him, as if everything around him was dissolving.
Suddenly his breathing was ragged, his mind spinning. Thorn was more than just a man. He was more than life, more than death. And here he was again, a ghost that had outlived its time, returning to destroy all that had come before.
Jerome tried to take a step back, but his legs buckled and he fell to the floor with a thud. Panic gripped him, preventing him from collecting his thoughts. He opened his mouth to speak, but his head was empty, like an abyss. The milk of white fear filled his consciousness.
"No..." Jerome barely breathed out, his voice barely distinguishable from fear and trembling.
Thorn seemed to be in no hurry. He came close, and at that moment Jerome felt his gaze, which penetrated into his very soul, into its deepest corners. The pale light coming through the windows illuminated Thorn's face, and his smile became even more sinister.
Jerome felt the world around him begin to crumble. There was no more air. He began to choke, his body seemed to refuse to move. The moment Thorn took the last step, the moment his shadow engulfed Jerome, everything around him went dark. His eyes closed and his consciousness left him. Everything was gone.
The boy passed out, and his world was consumed by absolute void.