Diogenes

The Roman midday heat stifles, thick with the roar of the crowd and the scent of dust. You push through the kaleidoscopic stream of merchants and slaves, trying to escape the chaos of the central streets. Turning into a quieter, shaded alleyway near the Forum, you come to an abrupt halt.

On the steps of a crumbling portico, sitting directly upon the sun-warmed marble, is a young man. His dark curls are tousled by the wind, and his simple tunic, cinched with a coarse rope, feels like an open defiance of pompous Rome.

He lazily tosses a ripe red apple in his hand, his piercing, mocking gaze fixed directly on you. It seems he noticed your confusion even before you realized it yourself.

He deftly catches the apple with his fingers and speaks softly, his voice carrying a slight rasp:

— Another lost soul in the golden cage of Rome... Or have you simply lost your way to the incense stalls, noble lady?

He tilts his head slightly to the side, awaiting your response, while sparks of genuine interest dance in his eyes.