A few years before the Apocalypse began…
In the quiet outskirts of San Basilio, a lesser-known district in Rome, the streets pulsed with life. The Festa di San Pietro e Palo was in full swing—a lively celebration filled with music, fragrant street food, and the clang of church bells echoing across ancient stone walls. Streamers danced in the wind, families laughed over roasted chestnuts, and performers twirled flaming batons to the beat of tambourines.
But for one boy, the festival wasn't about celebration—it was survival.
A barefoot child, no older than seven, darted through the crowded alleyways, clutching a half-loaf of bread like a sacred relic. His ribs pressed against thin skin, his brown hair tangled and dirty. The oversized hoodie he wore was riddled with holes and hung off one shoulder, a castoff from some trash bin long ago.
"Stop right there, you little rat!"
A bald man, red-faced and huffing in fury, gave chase. His white apron flapped behind him like a cape, stained with flour and tomato sauce. He shoved past a couple holding gelato, nearly tipping over a fruit stand.
"When I catch you—I swear—I'll snap that twig of a neck!"
The boy didn't even flinch. His legs burned, his lungs screamed, but he kept running—zigzagging between stalls, ducking under banners, slipping through tight spaces where grownups couldn't follow.
He glanced back, grinning.
"Give it a rest, baldy! It's just a loaf of bread, not your damn life savings!"
The man wheezed, clutching his back.
"You've stolen from me all year long, you pest! This is the last time!"
Children cheered and dancers spun in colorful skirts nearby, too busy celebrating to notice the chase unfolding in their midst. The boy nearly tripped over a stray dog, then vaulted over a crate of tomatoes, the stolen bread still firm in his grip.
He had a plan.
This festival—this chaos—was his window. The upcoming papal election (an election to appoint the next Pope) meant security was on edge, and if he got caught, he'd be thrown into the government-run orphanage. He refused. That place was a cage. He had siblings—three of them—and he was the only one fast enough, clever enough, to keep them fed. They were friends he had made on the street but he treated them like his real blood siblings.
'Just a little further… almost there…' he thought, weaving through a group of clapping tourists.
Then it happened.
In his haste, he whirled around mid-run to taunt his pursuer, not watching where he was going.
BAM!
He crashed—hard—into a tall man in a white robe.
The boy hit the ground with a thud, the loaf skidding across the cobblestones. The world spun. He looked up, dazed, heart pounding in his ears.
The boy looked up slowly, his breath caught in his throat. Standing in front of him was a tall man wearing a long, white robe. A deep hood shadowed his face, hiding most of his features. There was something strange about him.
Beside the hooded man stood another. He was older, broader in the shoulders, and had the look of someone who'd seen too much. His arms were crossed, and his gaze was fixed on the boy with mild irritation.
"Watch where you're going, child," the older man said, his voice firm but not cruel. He seemed like a friend or protector to the one in the robe.
Before the boy could speak, a loud voice exploded behind him.
"There you are! Finally caught you, you little demon!"
The boy froze.
'Oh crap… I completely forgot about him. I'm so dead,' he thought, eyes wide with panic.
He turned quickly—and just as expected, the bald man was storming toward him, face red with rage. His big hands were clenched into fists, and his apron was stained with flour and sweat. His boots thudded loudly against the cobbled street as he closed the distance like a charging bull.
The boy turned to run, but a strong hand grabbed his shirt from behind and yanked him off balance.
"You think you're getting away again? Not today!" the bald man hissed, dragging the boy by the collar.
"Hope you're not expecting a soft beating," he added with a cruel grin, turning to haul the boy away like a sack of potatoes.
The hooded man took a quiet step forward. His voice, when it came, was like a gentle breeze across a still pond.
"Excuse me," he said. "What crime could a child with such a pure heart possibly commit?"
The baker stopped in his tracks, blinking as if he'd misheard.
"What did you just say?" he muttered. "Pure heart?"
He let out a short, barking laugh, shaking his head. "You high or something? Pure? This little street rat? Don't make me laugh."
He jerked the boy roughly, making him stumble.
"Mind your business and walk away," the baker snapped, his face twisting with anger. "Or I swear, you'll regret poking your nose where it doesn't belong."
The boy kicked and squirmed. "Let me go, you bald-headed bastard!" he yelled, twisting his arms, trying to get free.
The bald man gave him a hard knock on the back of the head. "Shut up, you noisy rat," he growled.
The hooded man's voice returned, still calm but with an edge of resolve. "How about I pay for what he stole?"
His companion remained silent, watching the scene with narrowed eyes.
The baker stopped again, turning to glare at the hooded figure. "You serious?" he scoffed, yanking the boy closer like a prize. "You got any idea what you're saying?"
He walked back toward the two strangers, dragging the boy behind him like a caught fish. His eyes were wide with fury, but there was also something greedy in them—hope, perhaps.
"This kid's been stealing from me for months. You think paying for just today's loaf makes up for it?"
He stepped in close now, close enough that his sour breath touched the hooded man's robes.
"I'm talking twelve thousand euros. You gonna cough that up?" he said mockingly, raising his eyebrows. "No? Cat got your tongue?"
The boy watched with wide eyes, confused. Then, something unexpected happened.
The hooded man turned to his companion and said one word. "James."
"Yes, Father," James replied immediately.
The boy blinked. 'Did he just call him Father? But he looks older than him… What's going on here?'
The hooded man nodded once. "Give our hardworking man fifteen thousand."
Without a single word, James reached into his coat and pulled out a thick envelope. He handed it over casually, like it meant nothing.
The baker's eyes bulged. He snatched the envelope and opened it slightly. Real money. Lots of it. He pressed it to his chest like it might disappear.
Who carries this kind of money around? he wondered, both stunned and thrilled.
"Well then," the bald man said, trying to act unimpressed even as he fought a grin. "Looks like today's my lucky day."
He shoved the boy forward. "The kid's yours now. He's your problem. If he steals from me again—and I mean it—I'll kill him."
Then he vanished into the crowd, whistling cheerfully like a man who'd just won the lottery.
The street slowly quieted. The boy stood there, arms sore and knees scraped from the rough cobblestone. He stared up at the hooded man, unsure what to say.
Living on the streets for as long as he could remember, the boy had never learned manners, gratitude, or even how to say "thank you." Survival didn't require politeness—it demanded speed, sharp eyes, and a sharp tongue.
He stared at the hooded man who had just handed over a fortune—fifteen thousand euros—for his freedom. But instead of feeling grateful, the boy narrowed his eyes and sneered.
"What the hell are you staring at, you wrinkled old freak?" he snapped, voice sharp and full of defiance.
James, the robed man's companion, took a step forward, fists clenched, ready to silence the boy with one strike.
But the hooded man raised a hand, stopping him with a quiet laugh. His voice, once again, was smooth—almost amused.
"He has spirit," he said softly, as if praising a curious little animal.
Then he turned to the boy and crouched slightly, making himself eye-level.
"Come with me, child of grace," he said in a tone that somehow calmed the air around them. "If you do, I'll make sure you never go hungry again. You can have all the bread you want."
That got the boy's attention. He blinked, then slowly looked up at the man's calm face. His stomach growled, loud and shameless. He licked his dry lips, torn between pride and hunger.
"…All the bread I want?" he asked suspiciously.
"As much as your heart desires."
He didn't follow right away. But after a long pause, his feet moved on their own.
They walked together through narrow, dusty streets. Old wooden stalls lined the market road, and the scent of roasted nuts and fresh herbs danced on the wind. Crowds bustled in every direction, but strangely, people seemed to step aside for the man in the robe. Like they knew who he was… or feared him.
Later, in a quiet stone building lit with warm lanterns and filled with the soft scent of lavender, the boy spoke. He shared his story with the man over a table of hot food.
He didn't remember his name. Didn't know how old he was. He had no family, no home, nothing to claim as his own except for the rags on his back.
The man listened patiently, his hands folded in front of him.
The boy had also learned something shocking—this hooded man was going to be the next Pope.
So when the man suggested taking the boy's younger siblings—whom he hid in an alley nearby—to a new orphanage, the boy's eyes blazed with anger.
"No way!" he shouted. "Why the hell would I let you take them to some crappy orphanage? So they can starve and get beaten like I did?"
The hooded man's smile didn't fade. He leaned forward slightly.
"This one is different," he said. "It belongs to me. You have my word—they'll be treated well. You'll be able to visit them anytime you want. They'll be safe, and they'll sleep with full bellies."
His voice was like honey. Soft. Persuasive.
The boy didn't trust easily, but after hours of talk—and after a full meal for the first time in days—his walls finally broke.
"…Fine," he muttered, lowering his eyes. "Just… don't hurt them."
"I won't," the man said kindly. "I promise."
The boy hesitated again, then looked up.
"What about me?" he asked.
The man stood and placed a hand on the boy's shoulder. There was strength in that grip, but also warmth.
"I wish to take you in," he said. "As a child of God… as my brother, and as my son. But only if you agree."
He didn't finish the sentence before the boy cut in.
"I agree," he said quickly. "You gave away fifteen thousand euros like it was loose change. Of course I agree."
He leaned back, rubbing his belly and smiling slightly.
'God knows how much bread I could buy with that kind of money, he thought.'
The man smiled.
"Then from this moment on, your name will be Valmer Valgrace van Ruvoch. You may call me Holy Father from now on."
The boy—now Valmer—sat in stunned silence. A name. A real name. A title of his own.