As if the benediction of fate set with the sunlight. Once again, Rokah was forced to his knees a second time in one day. Hopeless, unable to resist. Red strips glamoured his head and clothes with conclusive evidence of desperation.

The guards hit his back, boots slammed his face in consecutive cadence.

Restrained by metal, he could only receive punishment. The sole consolation he felt sprouted from the painful screams that reached his ears. He wasn't the only one being reprimanded. All his cellmates, for several minutes, shared an identical reproof. His pain will be twofold if he was innocent.

These verities, fabricated charges, collective punishment, blurred the blinding awe he constructed upon upholding the splendor of Babel. It discolored some of his false beliefs. Even grandiose civilization thrived upon a morphism of gray zones.

The beating stopped once the fatigue impaled the muscles and joints of the guards. Those who couldn't support their weight to walk suffered a few more blows. While the others carried the extra baggage of fatigue caused by pain in their injured legs.

Rokah, as he swung the heaviness of exhaustion, followed the other prisoners in a straight line under the piercing gaze of guards.

The line drifted steadily, allowing him the luxury of printing the architectural details of the place, the strategic positions for surveillance. And locating the blind areas for successful sneaking.

The night finally conquered the last remains of sunlight. Cast a veil of an eeriness around the prisoners, also around the guards. It revealed a crucial mark that escaped Rokah's careful observations. Was it because of his wounded nose or because of his disturbed mind?

Under the humanoid appearances and between the head-wear materials of the guards, the rotten smell of decomposition drifted over their bodies, clothes, weapons, exposing their true origin…

Scavengers…

Consumers of death…

One hundred eighty degrees of Rokah's vision, about his escape, shifted direction. A realization, an epiphany…

A smooth path of his freedom paved upon the corpses of his cellmates, like an illusion bathed under the moonlight. It refused to leave his fantasy as a boost of enthusiasm wane over his pain. The ones who were before him, the others who were after him…

While he advanced, a step followed a step, he drowned deeper into this illusion of freedom.

How he was going to kill them?

One by one, or in bulk…

How he was going to speed up the putrefaction of their dead bodies…

Two forces clutched under his skin, his conscience about being a doctor, and his hatred toward the injustice. The world always finds ways to test his integrity, to subject him to make difficult choices.

He looked again at the one in front of him, counting the seconds to his inevitable collapse.

The guard ran near kicked the barely alive body from the line. Their sequence of action, closely studied by certain odd-colored eyes. Disgust filled the reflection on them.

They babbled in words Rokah almost couldn't decipher. Yet he perceived the exhilarate tone, much like grateful sizzles invited to a feast.

Thoughts swarmed inward. What if his body is the one being eaten by Scavengers in honor of some strange ritual? It left a repulsive taste in his mouth. Bitter, nasty…

This terrible envisaged end filled his heart with horror, despite that he didn't fancy himself or value his existence much.

The line resumed the slow-motion and the fantasy of climbing stairs of corpses to escape this end smelled roses, tasted sweeter, and madly liberating.

Sacrificing others for the sake of oneself…

That tiny perk of being a doctor, a savior dimmed each time the boundaries of Rokah's professional ethics and his selfish limitations wrestle. The result, lately, always aligned with the dark side of his insecurities. For he was the vigilant type, an observer of the outside phenomena and the inside changes.

Rokah choked, terrified. He never expected to turn this way, for the sake of surviving... the line of his self-development. curved so much lately. From the naïve, self-loathing person to abhorrent, life-hating, finally to a ruthless, cold-blooded carnivore.

To what extent he will walk over the principles he set?

As if he was disappearing, he was terrified of himself.

As if there was a monster trapped inside him, rapidly finding its way out… Making Rokah fade into nothingness.

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The nightmare of his last retaliation evaporated. The fact, still hunting him at this moment. Weighted on his conscious, no matter how far he attempted to flee it.

The cries of the butler as he cut his limbs alive deafened his perception. The volatile blood under the trees' canopies, the smell of agony… But he was like somebody else...

Reflecting on his tormenting practice, it induced Rokah's memory to expel a forgotten piece of the puzzle he didn't want to acknowledge:

"A Sawbones is sacred, noble. Being a Sawbones won't fit you. Yes, you have a talent for it, yet your heart luck virtue. You will only end up tormenting more souls than saving them."

The voice of an old person, To who belongs those words… How he dare say to him he can't be a doctor?

A sudden force pressed on his shoulder resembles a light switch to wake him up. He collected his scattered focus, tugged his eyes, confronting the responsible. Cynicism of indifference dominated his attitude.

" Doctor?"

Aghast, Rokah stared in silence. Someone has recognized him.

"What are you doing here?"

The question barely touched his ears, a flawless Aramaic pronunciation. Rokah, wide eyes concentrated on the person in front of him. The moonlight behind obscured this stranger's features. Counting only on the voice to recognize its owner, nothing rang a bell.

The man proceeded to talk to one of the guards. That flawless Aramaic switched into some closer dialect.

The gives and takes between the two lasted for a time. The slow movement of prisoners has stopped as a result. This session of dialog changed the rhythm from the calm question-answer phase to the scolding blaming stage.

Watching this interaction, Rokah understood. The stranger who spoke to him ranked higher on a scale of responsibility.

Then again, who could it be?

Why did he know him?

"I am sure there is some kind of mistake here." the stranger declared, a flawless command of the language enunciation while he directed his words to Rokah.

Following the man's movements under the meager light. Examining him, scanning the particular features. Rokah couldn't rekindle an ounce of familiarity about the stranger.

After the encounter, a weird development has followed. Freed from the heavy chains, Rokah was escorted to what seemed a hall, then to a prestigious office.

Fine papyrus scrolls brought by guards and organized on the stony, glazed desk.

The stranger proceeded to examine them while Rokah proceeded to observe him.

Traditional clothing, dense hair, and beard arranged in thick curls, long rectangular hate.

Signs of authority and pride kissed his manners. However, hints of athleticism overpowered the visible traces of academic upbringing.

If Rokah could point out someone that held an identical feel, it certainly would be the Aractanthrope of the doomed Chimera village despite the slight difference in size.

The man lifted his eyelashes, suggesting that he was aware of the intensified watching.

Hurriedly retreating from his gaze, Rokah, wondering glances cascaded over the guards. They stood far, near the entrance, anxiety, nervousness devoured their mirthful attitude, fear groomed their earlier detestable cackles.

After an overstrained recalling effort, Rokah couldn't remember being an acquaintance with someone of such high caliber.

"Hmm, a Crocotta agent?" He flicked another scroll open, "Do you have proofs confirming the charges?"

Rokah's irises slid into the side, anticipating the guard's answer.

The panic molded inside their mouths, restricting any sound forming. Yet one of them confessed: "We are not the squad responsible for his incarceration."

"It's written here. He was incarcerated because of a testimony of a courtesan accusing him of working for the Crocotta. She said that he has a copy of their famous permit." Then, the high caliber man roamed the distance between Rokah and the guards, waiting.

Rokah's poker-face, a fortress that protected his internal turmoil from the inquisitive, prying eyes. For the man, the speech was a test to both; him and the guards at the same time.

A short pause followed, loaded with sharpened concentration and fierce competition. Faces exchanged glances. Who would give up first in this act?

"Did you search his belongings?"

"Yes, milord."

Rokah pressed breath, circulating turmoil discharged as the starting interrogation marked the test ends. Hopefully, he passed it.

Damn this permit, he almost killed himself to get it, and now it turned into a curse following him.

"Why don't see an account of the search?" Irritated, the scroll fell from his hands: "Did you find anything to incriminate the suspect?"

A foreboding silence ruled the office. Shaken hands, droplets of sweat. Without looking, Rokah heard it, smelled it while his heart danced, thankful for getting rid of Mr. Hendrickson's cursed permit.

***

Drops of cold water blessed Rokah's skin soaked his hair, and climbed down his face, washing hours of the long nightmare. Still, the pressure has yet to squander. The strong flavor of the high-caliber stranger hovered behind him. Stimulating all the six senses he possessed, rendering them into a state of disarray.

They were outside, next to a finely contrived water canal. Two-person cab, a driver, and few guards stationed, neither near nor far the water canal. Rokah never felt so important. Those contradicting signals and ticks that reached his brain couldn't allow him to evaluate his standing, or form a decision.

Either way, in his position, Rokah didn't have a choice. He only can play along and he shall do.

The driver's whip hit the bull's back, and the wheels hit the ground surface. The cab took off.

"You should stay the night at my house." The heavily bearded man opened the talk, and Rokah's acting ability was placed under trial.

"I will take care of your belongings tomorrow. They need some paperwork before you can retrieve them."

"Thank you," Rokah looked outside, avoiding direct contact. "It's relief, hearing that my hard work in collecting those medical ingredients won't be wasted."

"Hhhh...Hhhh…"

The sound of deep laughs caused a jolt in Rokah's heart, for it was the sarcastic type. All kinds of bad omens swarmed inside his head. Surprised, eyes turned over to inspect the man. It only made the other fall deeper in his amusement.

Unsure of a threat or hospitality, Rokah prepared for the worst.

Why his sense of danger was failing him…

Who is this man?

Gasping for air after the loud laugh, the man was finally able to articulate a complete sentence: "There is no need to hide it from me." Another jolt confused Rokah's heart. " Earlier, I didn't say her name, but honestly, what happened?"

What is he talking about? Another test… Rokah kept silent.

"I am talking about Nayara…" the bearded man elaborated, "Don't you two have a good relationship? How did you offend here to play this nasty trick on you?"

Another deep laugh overcame the man, providing Rokah a shelter to escape without answering. Shifting his head to look outside, the second wave of confusion evaporated the lasting tiny bit of his rationality.