From Alessio Leone's Perspective
The evening passed quietly.
Much more quietly than I expected — and I knew exactly why.
Beatrice Medici.
It wasn't an exaggeration to say she changed the physics of a room.
While most guests moved like pieces on a social chessboard — businessmen, investors, veteran lawyers, all measuring their words and trading rehearsed smiles — Beatrice was the center of gravity.
People simply orbited around her.
The logic of these events was simple.
The powerful arrived, took their glasses of wine, and surrounded themselves with an invisible line of eager alumni waiting to hunt for opportunities.
The game was timed: ten, maybe fifteen seconds to introduce yourself, say something clever, leave an impression — and then vanish, replaced by the next in line.
An elegant ritual of self-promotion.
But all that changed when the surname in question was Medici.
Beatrice didn't need to approach anyone.
They came to her.
And since I happened to be standing beside her, natural curiosity did the rest.
Glances were cast, whispers spread, and suddenly I — who would never have drawn so much attention on my own — had become part of the small mystery next to the Medici heiress.
It was almost comical to watch seasoned lawyers trying to deduce who I was, straightening their ties, preparing to talk to me simply because Beatrice refused to let me step out of her orbit.
Not that I planned to use that to my advantage…
But it would've been a lie to say it wasn't helping.
Every introduction became easier by virtue of proximity.
People approached smiling, greeted Beatrice, and inevitably turned to ask me something — my name, my field, my work.
Everything flowed naturally.
And before I even realized it, all the important connections of the night had been made.
Still, the situation left me uneasy.
Not because I was there, but because I knew that, in some way, I was unintentionally using Beatrice.
She was one of the few people in the entire university who had ever genuinely tried to help me — never out of self-interest, but out of that strange habit she had of fixing other people's problems, as if the world were a chessboard and she the strategist responsible for keeping it in order.
I didn't want to lean on that.
But every time I tried to move away, Beatrice drew me back in.
She did it with the elegance of someone who didn't ask — she decided.
Her hands never touched, but her eyes, her tone, and a few simple words were enough to dismantle any excuse I offered.
"I just need to greet someone — I'll be right back," I said, trying to sound convincing.
She smiled faintly.
"Perfect. Let's call him over, then."
And before I could protest, she made a small flick of her wrist, summoning the very person I had been planning to approach.
Just like that.
Every attempt ended the same way.
She kept me firmly by her side, as if I were part of the evening's composition — an accessory carefully chosen to balance her presence.
And for some reason, that seemed to amuse her.
Each time I surrendered, she hid a small smile — one of those fleeting expressions that lasted less than a second, yet said everything.
In the end, I realized resistance was pointless.
In under ninety minutes, I had completed what could easily be considered an entire networking quota.
Photos, handshakes, digital cards exchanged — enough to impress any mentor or potential employer.
Honestly, I could have left right then.
For me, the night's purpose had been fulfilled.
And if the goal was to maintain appearances and avoid repeating the mistakes of my past life, I could already call it a success.
But Beatrice clearly thought otherwise.
Her gaze — calculated yet calm — made it clear the night was far from over.
That was when a nearby conversation snapped me out of the monotony.
The voices were low, but their tone — that kind of nervous enthusiasm — was unmistakable.
Two businessmen, both in dark suits and expensive watches, were talking animatedly about something that, in any other social setting, would have sounded absurdly out of place.
But in that moment, the word that slipped between their glasses of wine sharpened every one of my senses.
The Black Tower.
For an instant, even the piano music in the background seemed to fade.
My attention narrowed completely to their voices.
"I'm on level two… not bad for someone who only plays at night."
"Level two? I've invested over ten grand in credits and I'm still not there!"
"Ah, you're doing it wrong. The trick is to focus on the early ruins, buy gear from the gray market…"
Their conversation went on like that — a mix of misused jargon, bad guesses, and misplaced confidence.
And honestly, it was painful to hear.
Watching two men who had conquered so much in the real world — owners of companies, successful investors, symbols of everything the system encouraged — talk about the Tower as if it were some casual pastime was almost tragic.
They treated the greatest technological and economic phenomenon of the century like a casino game, a digital roulette where money alone determined victory.
Internally, I wanted to laugh.
But I held back.
Then a soft voice at my side broke through my thoughts.
"Do you play that game?"
I turned slowly and met Beatrice's gaze — curious, analytical as always.
There was no judgment there, only interest.
The kind of quiet curiosity of someone accustomed to having answers for everything but who occasionally allowed herself to ask a question she shouldn't.
For a second, I considered not replying.
But something occurred to me.
Those two businessmen certainly had no idea what was truly about to happen — the upcoming update, the opening of the exchange system, the merging of the Tower with the global economy.
They were still trapped at the surface.
But the Medici family…
They were at the top of the food chain.
If anyone in the real world had early access to corporate intelligence, it would be them.
And Beatrice, more than anyone, looked exactly like the kind of person who already knew more than she said.
Still, I chose a neutral answer.
"A little," I said calmly. "It's an interesting game."
She nodded slightly, eyes still on the men ahead, as if weighing the implications of my words.
Then, almost casually, she said something that carried far more weight than it seemed.
"Then you'll have to help me someday," she said with a small smile — the kind that, on Beatrice, was more a challenge than a favor.
"I don't understand anything about games."
The words were light, tossed out almost playfully — but loaded with intention.
She wasn't asking for help.
Beatrice Medici rarely asked for anything — she invited.
And an invitation from her was never innocent.
By instinct, I agreed.
"Sure," I said, without thinking too much.
And it was true — I saw no harm in it.
At most, we'd just be two acquaintances meeting in the digital world — something completely normal in an era where half of all professional connections were born inside the Tower.
But deep down, a part of me knew: nothing was ever that simple when Beatrice Medici was involved.
She seemed about to continue.
Her lips parted slightly, her gaze still on me — perhaps ready to ask another question — but before she could, a loud sound filled the hall.
The speakers crackled with a sharp metallic echo, cutting through every conversation around us.
The collective murmur ceased.
The pianist stopped playing.
And the lights dimmed, focusing all attention on the main stage.
Beatrice turned immediately, composure restored, the brief spark of playfulness gone as if it had never existed.
And beside her, I drew a quiet breath, feeling the weight of that silence —
the kind that always comes right before something important.