Perspective: Alessio Leone
The applause still echoed as Alessio stepped away from the stage.
The sound was polite, civilized — the kind of applause that mixed genuine admiration with the social need to appear impressed.
He recognized the tone.
It was the same kind of acknowledgment given to someone who had won, but shouldn't have won so easily.
Even so, his expression remained neutral.
There was no satisfaction on his face.
No pride, no trace of pleasure at having dismantled Pablo Ricci in front of half the office.
Only serenity.
The truth was simple: it didn't matter as much as it seemed.
Yes, he understood its value.
That little "presentation" — as he preferred to call it — would surely yield positive consequences later.
Professional ripples, internal prestige, maybe even doors opening in places that had once been locked.
But none of that thrilled him.
For one very simple reason: time was running out.
The silver watch on his wrist marked the passing of the night like a constant reminder.
Every minute spent there, among polite laughter and clinking glasses, was a minute lost from what truly mattered.
From what awaited him on the other side.
The fourth day inside the Black Tower.
He could already feel that familiar urgency pulsing beneath his skin — a conditioned instinct.
The same impulse that, in his previous life, had made him wake earlier, sleep later, and spend every breath inside the game.
It was almost physical — like hunger.
And that was exactly what set him apart from everyone else in that hall.
They were all chasing the same thing: influence, connections, impressions.
They played a game of appearances, uncertain advantages, and favors that might or might not materialize.
But Alessio played a different game — one infinitely more complex and predictable.
After all, he wasn't a lawyer trying to stand out among his peers.
He was a returned man — someone who had lived ten years inside the Black Tower.
Ten years of learning, of blood, of mistakes and victories — and above all, of memory.
And that memory was worth more than any networking he could build there.
With it, he could reconstruct routes, anticipate updates, explore areas before the world even knew they existed.
He could — and would — build a virtual empire upon the ruins others were still trying to understand.
And when that empire stood tall, reality would inevitably bend to it.
Money, power, prestige — they would all follow as consequences.
He didn't need to chase them.
So while the guests continued to discuss the "memorable debate" and gossip about Pablo's reaction, Alessio had already decided:
the night was over for him.
He had accomplished everything he'd planned — and more.
He had attended the meeting, kept a professional demeanor, protected his name, handled an unexpected challenge, and ensured that the Leone name would circulate favorably through the corridors.
There was no reason to stay.
Still, he didn't leave immediately.
Logic told him to go — to walk straight home as quickly as possible.
But there was something weighing on his mind, like an unresolved equation.
Beatrice.
If he was there at all, it was because of her.
The invitation, the opportunity, the setting — everything had been arranged by her.
And as cold and analytical as he could be, Alessio wasn't ungrateful.
Not toward someone useful.
So, even with time slipping away, he turned toward the center of the hall, where she still sat — immaculate, composed, watching the crowd like a chessboard after the final move.
The light on the wine in her glass made it look as though she was holding liquid ruby.
Alessio crossed the room with measured steps, the hum of conversation mingling with the fading echoes of applause.
He noticed some heads turn toward him — curious, assessing, even reverent — but he paid them no mind.
Beatrice saw him approaching.
And for a brief instant, something rare happened: her gaze softened.
Not enough to be called a smile, but enough to convey approval.
Alessio stopped in front of her, keeping the exact distance he maintained from anyone he respected but didn't truly know.
That invisible boundary that said: grateful, but vigilant.
"Thank you, Beatrice," he said, his voice low but firm. "For all of this."
She looked at him for a moment — perhaps two — before responding.
The kind of pause that weighed more than any speech.
Beatrice observed him in silence, her serene gaze contrasting with the low murmur spreading through the hall.
When she finally spoke, her tone was softer than usual — as if she'd allowed herself a trace of warmth.
"Don't tell me you're already running away," she said, one eyebrow arched, her voice laced with subtle irony.
Alessio offered a faint smile, balancing courtesy with honesty.
"I've got another commitment later," he replied. "I need to get home early."
She studied him for a moment, as if weighing his answer on an invisible scale.
Then she looked away, her eyes sweeping over the room — the clusters of people forming, the laughter growing louder, the clinking of glasses that had become the soundtrack of the night.
"I see," she said at last, her tone distant. "That's for the best. Nothing interesting will happen here anyway."
The remark came with a small sigh, almost imperceptible.
Beatrice looked tired — not physically, but of being surrounded by the same kind of people who talked loudly and said nothing.
Alessio understood the feeling.
He was about to say his goodbyes, body already leaning toward the exit, when her voice stopped him again.
"How about I give you a ride?" she asked casually, though her offer carried its usual undertone of control. "If I remember right, your apartment's nearby — but it'd still be faster by car."
Alessio hesitated.
He didn't like owing favors — not even small ones.
And with Beatrice, everything was measured in terms of power; even kindness had weight in her arithmetic.
"That won't be necessary," he said respectfully but firmly. "I can walk."
Beatrice, however, didn't seem like someone who accepted refusals easily.
She turned her face back toward him, eyes gleaming again with restrained amusement.
"Don't be like that," she countered, crossing her legs and resting her glass on the edge of the table. "I need an excuse to leave before everyone gets too drunk anyway."
The way she said it — halfway between humor and weariness — left him momentarily speechless.
It was always hard to tell when Beatrice spoke out of spontaneity or calculated manipulation.
But this time, it felt genuine.
And in the end, she wasn't wrong.
Staying while the hall dissolved into noisy chatter wasn't an option.
Laughter was growing louder, conversations messier, and the popping of bottles signaled the start of the social chaos he despised.
Alessio exhaled slowly, accepting the inevitability of the moment.
There was no practical reason to refuse — and, in a way, leaving with Beatrice would ensure he escaped without being cornered by talkative colleagues.
"Alright," he said at last, giving in.
She rose immediately.
The movement was simple, yet deliberate — like everything she did.
"Then let's go before someone decides to make another toast," she said, adjusting the fine necklace around her neck and casting him a brief, conspiratorial glance.
Alessio only nodded.
As they walked side by side toward the exit, he noticed how the world behind them seemed to fade into noise.
The cool air of the corridor contrasted with the stifling heat of the hall, and for a fleeting moment, he felt that familiar sense of relief — the quiet breath before another plunge.