Ampelius found the old mirror to be spotless. There was no watermarks, rust, or even dust. Then he focused on his reflection, starting from his head, he admired his freshly cut black hair, moving down to his green eyes that were sharp as glass. Yet something in the image felt hauntingly familiar, an ache pressing at his chest. Memories flickered: a worn photograph, a child’s laughter, a crowd of faceless stares. Each vision was brief, heavy, hinting at something he could never reclaim.

  The sensation gnawed at him, as if it was rising to a boil. He felt the surge of raw fury, and suddenly clenched his fist and drove it into the mirror, shattering it. Blood oozed from his knuckles and into the sink, streaking the shards of glass. The pain was sharp and grounding, but it pulled him back from the tempest within.

  He drew in slow breaths, fighting to steady his racing heartbeat. As he closed his eyes, he focused on the rhythm, using the quiet whispers of old voices echoing in his mind. You’re better than this, one of them seemed to say. Don’t let them get to you. Slowly, he turned on the faucet for cold water, letting it run over his hands, watching the red blood swirl away, vanishing into the drain.

  When the blood was washed away, he shut off the faucet and faced the mirror he broke. His fractured reflection stared back at him in pieces. He tried to force a hollow smile. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that,” he murmured. It wasn't a real apology, but one meant for himself more than the shattered glass.

  Ampelius grabbed a paper towel from the dispenser beside the sink and dried his hands while gazing around the restroom. At the far end of the stalls, a bright red poster caught his attention: a Roman soldier in a modern uniform driving his boot into a masked terrorist. Below the image were the words: “Terrorism does not discriminate; trust in the Empire to protect you!”

  Ampelius smiled faintly at the poster, shaking his head in disapproval. The boldness of the propaganda was almost laughable, yet it served as a obvious reminder of Rome's iron grip on every aspect of daily life, even in the most mundane of places.

  “Terrorism?” Ampelius muttered. “They’re freedom fighters — you’re the ones occupying this land. Nobody wants Rome meddling in their affairs, least of all here. Gotta love the propaganda.”

  His words were laced with bitterness, a quiet rebellion in a world where speaking out loud could mean risking everything. He glanced around, ensuring he was still alone, the silence amplifying the weight of his words lingering in the empty bathroom.

  After tossing the used paper towel, he took one last look at the shattered mirror. Again, his reflection stared back, still fragmented and distorted, still oddly familiar, as if it was mocking him with an image he couldn’t quite piece together.

  He left the restroom and stepped back into the bustling restaurant. The greasy smell hit him like a wall, making his stomach growl. He glanced at the menu, briefly tempted by a warm meal, but the confrontation in the mirror still clung to his thoughts. After a moment’s debate, he decided against it and moved toward the door.

  That’s when two Roman MPs walked in. Their presence instantly silenced the restaurant, as the lively chatter collapsed into a tense, uneasy hush. All eyes turned toward them like outsiders in a place they didn’t belong. But, none dare challenge or say a word as the room held its breath.

  These soldiers stood out like a sore thumb, especially with their golden eagle insignias on one shoulder and military police patches on the other. The presence they posed here was intimidating, yet their authority was clear based on the rifles slung across their chests and the sidearms at their hips. However, each step they took came with a cold metallic clink of their boots on tile that would echo through the silent room.

  Ampelius felt a pang of resentment toward these soldiers. That resentment sharpened into anger, though he forced himself to swallow it down for his own good. He’d grown up on these streets, back when neighbors could still laugh openly and share drinks in public, when the uniforms were present but not yet suffocating.

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  The stories his father told him as a child about Vetera’s first resistance to Rome felt more distant with every passing year. He hadn’t lived through those days himself, but his father’s words painted them so vividly they almost seemed like memories of his own. Even now, they lingered in his mind, quietly fueling his defiance. But in recent years, a wave of terrorist attacks had only given Rome an excuse to tighten its grip on the city, pulling the noose tighter with each act of violence.

  The soldiers glared around at everyone, their eyes sweeping the room with a predatory intensity. Ampelius could feel the unease settle over everyone here, with every breath caught in their throats. But, he couldn’t shake the feeling that these predators weren’t just passing through, but were on the hunt, or even itching for a fight. But their posture was what told the truth, they were ready for violence, like wolves among sheep waiting for the chance to draw blood.

  Suddenly, one man caught their attention, someone who hadn’t even looked their way, as he was too focused on finishing his sandwich.

  “You,” one of the soldiers barked in broken English, pointing at him. “Name.”

  The man ignored them and kept chewing, as if they weren’t worth his time. The soldier repeated himself, louder this time. “Name. Tell your name.”

  This time, the man looked up. His eyes spoke for him. “No,” then went right back to his sandwich.

  A murmur rippled through the room. The soldiers stiffened, clearly taking his silence as a challenge, or a refusal to obey. They stepped closer, raising their voice with each word. “Name. Now!” one barked.

  Ampelius felt the air grow heavier as the confrontation unfolded. Nobody moved or spoke, everyone focused their attention on the man and soldiers confronting him.

  Without warning, one of the soldiers reached for his arm. The man reacted instantly, hurling his half-eaten sandwich into the soldier’s face before bolting from the booth. The sudden outburst shattered the silence, and the room erupted with gasps and hurried whispers. Ampelius’ fists clenched instinctively as his knuckles began to ache while he ground his teeth.

  The man sprinted toward the rear exit, but his movements were frantic. For a moment, Ampelius almost believed he might escape. But just as the door came within his reach, a third soldier stepped through it and into his path. The man skidded to a halt, eyes darting wildly for another way out. The truth closed in on him. He was trapped.

  He suddenly veered toward the kitchen, shoving an employee aside as he sprinted toward it. The soldier he had hit with the sandwich anticipated this move and lunged at him, driving him down hard with a brutal tackle that shook the floor. They crashed into a tangle of limbs, but the man’s shoulder slammed against the tile as they wrestled for control.

  His breaths came in ragged gasps, each one becoming more chaotic. Ampelius saw the desperation in the man as he made every attempt to claw and kick his way free. But the soldier’s grip held firm, and within moments the other two were on him, dragging him down. His struggles only grew weaker with each second, until panic began to smother what little resistance he had left.

  Ampelius stepped back, a tightness pressing in his chest as helplessness weighed him down. His fingers twitched with the urge to act, but he knew better. One wrong move and he’d be down there with the man, just another body crushed under the Empire’s boot.

  The soldiers kept at him with fists and boots, every strike landing with a dull, heavy thud. The man curled up, trying to shield himself, but it didn’t matter. There was no mercy in them, no restraint—only fury.

  The rest of the restaurant sat frozen. Chairs creaked as people shifted in their seats, some turning away, others staring in shock. Nobody dared to move, hardly even to breathe. The only sounds were the sick thud of fists on flesh and the man’s muffled cries, carried through the silence like a warning.

  After a minute the man stopped fighting. His body went limp, and the soldiers wasted no time slapping cuffs on his wrists and ankles. They lifted him up like dead weight and dragged him toward the door, leaving behind a streak of blood for the employees to scrub away.

  As they passed, Ampelius caught a clear look at the man’s face. It was swollen, broken, almost unrecognizable. His stomach went twisted, as a bitter wave of nausea was rising in his throat. Anger and disgust burned together until he had to look away.

  Note to self: don’t piss off the soldiers, he thought, the dark humor doing little to hide the unease gnawing at his gut.

  The restaurant stayed silent long after the soldiers were gone. A chair creaked, silverware clinked faintly against a plate, but no one spoke. When the whispers finally came, they were hushed, cautious, like people afraid the soldiers might still be listening. Ampelius lingered in that silence, the weight of it settling deep in his chest.