From Alessio Leone's Perspective
The day began unusually for Alessio.
The sun over Palermo rose lazily on the horizon, tinting the old buildings in shades of soft gold.
The morning air carried that crisp freshness that only exists in the first hours of the day.
The streets were still empty, with the occasional sound of a car crossing the main boulevard, while the chirping of birds blended with the steady rhythm of Alessio's footsteps on the pavement.
He had just finished his ten-kilometer run — a habit he maintained with near-military discipline.
Sweat slid slowly down his temple, and his breathing was starting to steady as he slowed his pace.
Each morning, that ritual anchored him to reality, helping him keep both body and mind aligned.
Crossing the central park, he headed toward one of the benches under the shade of the olive trees — his usual spot to pause, breathe, and mentally map out his day.
But before he could sit, the quiet of the square was interrupted.
His phone vibrated in his pocket, followed by a familiar ringtone — an old melody, almost forgotten, one he hadn't heard in weeks.
The sound made him stop in his tracks.
For a moment, he just stared at the screen without answering.
He wasn't expecting a call.
Lately, his contacts had been reduced to brief messages — direct calls were rare.
But as soon as the name appeared on the display, Alessio's heart gave a small, involuntary jolt.
Beatrice.
A name that carried with it memories and responsibilities.
The recollection came instantly, along with that uncomfortable sense of déjà vu — something he didn't remember experiencing in the previous timeline, yet somehow knew was important.
Very important.
He took a slow breath, adjusted his earphones, and answered.
Her voice came first — soft and bright.
"Good morning, Alessio."
He smiled faintly, wiping sweat from his forehead with his forearm.
"Good morning, Beatrice."
For a brief second, silence filled the line — only the distant hum of traffic and the faint crackle of static.
Then came her voice again, calm and professional, the tone he knew so well.
"I'm calling to confirm your presence at the alumni meeting tonight."
Alessio stopped, eyes lifting toward the fountain at the center of the square.
A group of pigeons took flight, slicing through the air in synchronized motion, and he couldn't help but smile at the irony of it.
Even without that call, he knew exactly what day it was — and what that meeting represented.
"Of course, I'll be there," he replied, his voice steady — practiced, as though he had rehearsed it. "Where was it again?"
On the other end, Beatrice let out a light, polite laugh before replying:
"At the university's main event hall," she said, pausing briefly. "You'll need a ride, right?"
He glanced at his watch, then at the bicycle leaning against the curb.
"No, no — I'm good. Thank you."
"Alright then, I'll see you there," she said with that efficient kindness that seemed second nature to her. "It'll be nice to see you after so long, Alessio."
The call ended with a faint click, and silence returned.
Alessio stood there for a few seconds, watching the screen fade to black.
The morning light reflected off the dark display, and for an instant, he saw his own reflection — a serious face, a tired gaze, and beneath it all, that curious sensation of anticipation.
That meeting wasn't just some alumni gathering.
It was almost a rite of passage at the University of Palermo's Law Faculty.
Every graduate knew — attending the annual reunion was more than a social gesture.
It was a test.
Entrepreneurs, renowned lawyers, judges, politicians, and investors filled the room each year.
It was the kind of place where the right handshake could open doors that merit alone never would.
And for a recent graduate like Alessio, it was an opportunity not to be missed.
He knew that.
He knew exactly how much weight that night carried.
That elegant, overcrowded hall of familiar faces and powerful connections was what many called "the first test of the real world."
But the irony was that, in his previous life, he had failed that test — miserably.
Back then, Alessio had been completely consumed by the Black Tower.
The game was new, fascinating, mysterious — and more than anything, it offered something reality didn't: purpose.
He spent nights exploring every line of its code, every update, every rumor of hidden content.
During the day, he'd sleep or bury himself in forums, watching live broadcasts, dissecting mechanics, living entirely within that virtual world.
The real world had become an inconvenient distraction — something he could easily ignore.
That's how he missed the meeting.
At the time, he didn't think much of it.
He believed his future was already secured — he had passed a public service exam, after all.
Why waste time networking at a reunion that had nothing to do with his career?
Nothing urgent.
Nothing worth missing a Tower event over.
But he was wrong.
Terribly wrong.
Because he never even took that job.
The Tower — what began as a pastime — became something much greater.
Years later, it would turn into an entire global economy.
A parallel world with its own financial system, where wealth, power, and fame could be earned without ever leaving home.
But that particular night would go on to define more than just his career.
His absence — a simple "no-show" — carried consequences far beyond what he imagined.
He hadn't just lost professional connections.
He had lost something far more personal.
His relationship with his mother, already strained, deteriorated further.
She had begged him to go — to meet people, to remember that life existed beyond the screen.
But he ignored her.
He'd told her, coldly, that her future was his past and locked himself in his room.
After that, they were never the same.
And even after being reborn, Alessio still carried that silent regret.
But now, everything was different.
He was sitting on the same park bench, on the same morning, with the same sun rising over the rooftops of Palermo — but he was no longer the same man.
He remembered exactly what would happen if he ignored this path, and this time, he would not let fate repeat itself.
"Not this time," he murmured, watching the sun's reflection on his phone screen.
This time, he would go to the meeting.
He would talk to people, play the part, maintain appearances — enough to secure a name, a network, a trace of stability outside the game.
He didn't need to overdo it.
He didn't need to impress anyone.
He just needed not to make the same mistake again.
He stood from the bench, inhaling deeply.
The morning breeze slipped between the olive trees — cool, light, and clean — as he adjusted his jacket over his shoulders.
On his phone screen, the event reminder blinked softly.
And for the first time in years, Alessio Leone smiled at the future —
because this time, he intended to face it.