Perspective: Alessio Leone
For a moment, Alessio forgot to breathe.
Not because he was startled, but because his lungs seemed to decide, on their own, that oxygen was unnecessary in the face of what he saw on the screen.
The reflection of his expression on the phone's glass revealed what he refused to admit: admiration.
Maybe now he finally understood why everyone at the university — classmates, alumni, even professors — showed such exaggerated fascination with Beatrice Medici.
Until that moment, he had believed it was only the weight of her surname.
A name that could open doors before its bearer even arrived to walk through them.
But as he looked at the picture before him, Alessio had to admit there was something more to the equation.
The image was simple — and precisely because of that, striking.
Beatrice was far from her usual formal rigor.
No dark suits, no high-collared blouses, no impassive expression serving as her social armor.
In the photo, she looked closer, more human — and, paradoxically, even more unreachable.
Her golden hair, usually pinned back with surgical precision, fell in gentle waves over one shoulder, illuminated by a natural light that seemed made to highlight the pale tone of her skin.
Her face — the same one he'd seen in meetings and events — looked different: softer.
The habitual rigidity had melted away, revealing delicate features, a serene gaze, and a calm, almost introspective expression.
But what stood out most was the whole — the composition itself.
The light blouse she wore was simple, yet revealed the subtle lines of her body with effortless elegance.
Nothing vulgar. Nothing staged.
Just the harmony of someone who, even without trying, radiated presence.
It was strange how much that affected him.
Beatrice, in her most casual form, seemed more dangerous than in any lecture hall or debate.
And maybe that was exactly why he didn't know how to react.
Alessio stayed still for several seconds, simply watching.
Until the soft vibration of the device brought him back to reality.
A notification — from Zingchat.
A new message.
"Good night, Alessio."
Simple. Direct.
The kind of polite greeting anyone might send after adding a new contact.
But the context changed everything.
It wasn't the words that unsettled him — it was their combination with the image.
That picture, so different from the Beatrice he knew, seemed to contradict the coldness she always carried.
And for the first time, Alessio realized something uncomfortable:
perhaps he had underestimated who she really was.
He remained still for a long while, his eyes fixed on the illuminated screen.
Beatrice's image stayed there — motionless, yet strangely powerful — as if the portrait held something beyond appearance.
He could still feel the echo of her beauty in his thoughts, a faint resonance that lingered even as he tried to look away.
Finally, he exhaled — softly.
Almost a quiet laugh.
"Alright… this is getting ridiculous," he murmured to himself.
A faint smile crossed his lips — the kind born from reluctantly admitting a simple truth:
he was human, after all.
But soon, reason returned, washing over emotion like a cold tide.
In the end, it didn't matter how beautiful Beatrice was.
It didn't matter how graceful, how magnetic, or how curious she made him feel.
She was a Medici.
And he… well, he was just another forgettable name orbiting around that one.
Distances like that didn't cross paths outside strategic convenience.
And even if chance ever brought them close, they would never truly mix.
Beatrice Medici wasn't a woman to be approached.
She was a symbol.
And symbols aren't reached — they're admired from afar.
Alessio locked the phone, pushing the weight of those thoughts to the back of his mind.
He replied quickly, directly, with no embellishment:
"Good night, Beatrice."
The screen went dark, taking with it the faint glow of their newly opened conversation.
And with that, he regained his balance.
He stood, walking toward the bathroom.
The sound of his suit's zipper opening was the only noise in the still apartment.
Piece by piece, he shed the evening's formality — jacket neatly hung, shoes aligned by the wall, tie draped over the chair.
In the mirror, his reflection looked lighter without the weight of social armor.
A regular man — tired, but focused.
He stepped into the shower, letting the hot water fall across his shoulders.
The heat cleansed not just his body but the remnants of the night — the tension, the noise, the faces, and, most of all, Beatrice's lingering image.
He let it all wash away with the rising steam.
Minutes later, dressed in a simple T-shirt and comfortable pants, he returned to his room.
The digital clock on his nightstand read 21:57.
Three minutes.
That number was far too familiar.
To most, it marked the end of another ordinary day.
But to Alessio, it was the threshold between two worlds.
He lay down, positioning the headset over his temples.
The device clicked softly into place, the cold sensors pressing against his skin.
Even after so many sessions, that sensation still sent a small shiver through him — almost ritualistic.
He took a deep breath.
Slowly, he closed his eyes.
And as the inner display flickered to life, he prepared to dive once more — into what, deep down, he no longer considered a game.
The real world began to fade.
The ceiling dissolved into white mist.
And when the clock struck 22:00, the Black Tower unfolded before him.
For most, it was a world of fantasy.
For Alessio Leone — it was the real one.