He wore contact lenses, his eyes showing a deep gray, appearing somewhat ethereal, but his gaze was so focused on her as if she was his most cherished treasure.
"Zimo!" she called his name softly, "Although... I don't know what exactly happened between us, I feel lucky because you love me."
"Idiot!" Leng Zimo murmured softly, "The luckiest person is me, not you."
She smiled, then raised her hand to grab his collar, pulling his head down, her lips gently kissing his, just like she often did before.
The memories have faded, but loving him, being close to him, had become a habitual instinct, something that can never be forgotten.
...
...
Rome.
A deserted warehouse in the Eastern Suburbs.
A car drove over the dust-filled road, entered through the wide-open gate, all the way into a warehouse with doors open, where the waiting crowd immediately gathered together.
There were Caucasians, African Americans, and Asians, numbering about thirty people.
