6. Chapter Six
Chapter Six
S kye
The atrium has become my sanctuary since I discovered it. This patch of grass, bordered by trees and dotted with flowers, is a little oasis surrounded by the stark white walls of the hospital.
I’ve claimed a wooden picnic table as my workspace, the sturdy bench a far cry from my ergonomic office chair back home. My tailbone protests after hours of coding, but the peace I find here is worth the tradeoff.
I’m deep in a particularly tricky bit of natural language processing when movement catches my eye. Looking up, I freeze, my fingers hovering over the keyboard.
A man has entered the atrium. No, not just a man—a gladiator. Thrax.
My breath catches as I take him in. He’s… massive. Where Varro is muscular and athletic, Thrax is a mountain of a man. His shoulders are impossibly broad, arms thick with corded muscle. A makeshift loincloth, fashioned from what looks like a torn sheet, is his only clothing. He seems oblivious to how out of place he looks, and I realize with a start that to him, this is normal attire.
As he moves farther into the atrium, I can’t help but stare. His body is a roadmap of violence and pain. Scars crisscross his chest and back, some clearly from combat, but others… My st omach turns as I notice patterns in some of the marks. These weren’t accidental. Someone deliberately carved into his flesh, over and over again.
Hot tears prick my eyes at the thought of such a thing, at the unnecessary pain someone inflicted for their amusement. As quickly as sadness tides through my body, it’s replaced with white, hot anger at the ghoul who did this to a human being.
Pulling my thoughts back to Thrax, I take his measure. His face is a study in contrasts. His high cheekbones and strong jaw hint at handsome symmetry, but years of fighting have left their mark. But it's his caramel-colored eyes that hold me, carrying a sadness that seems to run deeper than the moment.
Then I notice his left ear and force myself to stifle a gasp. It’s misshapen, swollen, and twisted—the telltale sign of repeated blows. Cauliflower ear, my mind supplies, remembering an article I once read about wrestlers.
He either hasn’t noticed me or is purposely avoiding eye contact—he’s looking at the sky. I should speak up, introduce myself, but the words catch in my throat. Social situations have never been my strong suit, and this… this is way out of my depth. So I fall back on an old, reliable tactic—pretending not to notice.
What do you even say to a man who’s just traveled through time? Who’s lost everything he’s ever known? Besides, my translation program isn’t working yet and I certainly don’t know a word of ancient Latin.
So I sit, silent and awkward, watching Thrax stare at the sky. Is he looking for something?
A horrible thought occurs to me. What if the revival process wasn’t entirely successful? His body may have survived the thaw, but what about his mind? Is he even aware of where he is, or is he lost in some ancient memory?
My heart aches for him. To be so alone, so out of place. The urge to comfort him wars with my social anxiety, leaving me frozen in indecision.
Thrax lowers his head, and for a brief moment, our gazes meet. I’m struck by the intensity of his stare, the raw emotion barely contained behind that stoic exterior. Then, as quickly as it happened, his gaze darts away, his shoulders hunching slightly as if trying to make his beefy body smaller.
I should say something. Anything. But before I can summon the courage, Thrax turns and leaves the atrium as silently as he entered.
My fingers hover over the keyboard, but the code that seemed so urgent moments ago now feels trivial. How can I focus on algorithms and data structures when there’s a man right here, struggling to bridge a gap of two thousand years?
With a sigh, I turn back to my work. Maybe I can’t find the words to comfort Thrax, but I can give him a voice.