Perspective: Bianca Bellini
Honestly, Bianca had already given up on Alessio.
Or at least, that's what she kept telling herself.
There was a time — not so long ago — when she still caught herself watching him at the university's running track.
That old routine of his, carried out with almost irritating discipline, hadn't changed.
Even after everything — after the breakup, after the silence that followed the unanswered messages — she still watched from a distance, pretending not to see him.
And in those moments, a stubborn part of her imagined what it would be like to call him again.
A casual conversation.
A simple reunion.
Maybe even a different beginning.
But that illusion didn't last.
She destroyed it herself, the moment she found out — through classmates, social media, and the usual rumors — that Alessio had gone back to that habit.
The Black Tower.
That was the new virtual world slowly reclaiming every bit of his attention from reality.
It was an old, bitter feeling — competing against something untouchable.
At first, she tried to understand.
But soon she learned what it truly meant to love someone who loses himself inside a game.
The emptiness.
The waiting.
The late-night messages.
The half-finished conversations.
The weariness disguised as distraction.
And when she heard that he hadn't just gone back, but had dragged Matteo with him — that loyal friend, his eternal partner-in-everything — something inside her finally broke.
He hadn't changed.
He hadn't learned anything.
"The same mistake all over again," she thought the night before, when she got the news.
"The same obsession."
That was when she swore to herself — with the cold resolve of someone determined to end a cycle — that she would never again waste a single minute of her life on Alessio Leone.
She would forget him.
For real this time.
No relapses. No excuses.
But now, staring at those photos on her phone, seeing Beatrice Medici — all composure and inaccessible charm — standing next to him in every one of them, something inside Bianca began to unravel.
A faint, almost imperceptible pulse tightened in her chest.
A flicker of discomfort.
She didn't want to feel it.
She refused to.
But she did.
It wasn't jealousy, she told herself.
It wasn't envy.
It wasn't anything she could logically name.
It was just… irritation.
A quiet, gnawing irritation that grew with every image, every restrained smile, every discreet glance they exchanged.
As if time itself had decided to punish her for pretending she'd moved on.
Beatrice Medici.
The perfect girl. The heiress of an empire. The woman who seemed born with the world at her feet.
Of course it would be her.
It was obvious.
The universe always had a taste for irony like that.
Bianca took a deep breath and looked down at the wine in front of her.
She swirled it slowly, watching the restaurant lights dance in crimson reflections along the glass.
She raised it to her lips, hoping for the familiar sweetness that once made her smile.
But tonight, the wine had no taste.
It was as if the flavor itself had been drained by the irritation sitting heavy in her chest.
She set the glass back down, her eyes fixed on a random point beyond the phone screen, and realized just how much she hated it —
Hated the weakness, the relapse, the fact that she still felt something for a man who had so clearly moved on.
That old name — the one she had promised to bury — pulsed inside her again with a force it shouldn't have had anymore.
Alessio Leone.
And the mere thought of him was enough to sour everything.
"Hey, Bianca."
Her friend's voice snapped her out of her thoughts.
Bianca blinked a few times, slowly returning to reality — to the restaurant chatter, the smell of pasta and wine, the soft light flickering above the tables.
"Hm?" she answered with a forced smile, trying to hide that she hadn't heard a word.
But her friend's expression made it clear: she had noticed everything.
Concern and curiosity blended in her eyes.
"Why don't we…" she began, leaning forward and pointing toward the window.
Bianca followed her gaze.
Across the street, the brightly lit window of an electronics store displayed a massive holographic screen showing the title everyone had been talking about for weeks:
THE BLACK TOWER.
The golden-and-black logo spun slowly, surrounded by surreal projections — warriors, impossible cities, vast dreamlike landscapes.
Below it, the slogan read: "The game that changes the way you see reality."
Bianca exhaled quietly.
Of course.
The Black Tower.
The same game that had pulled Alessio back into the world she thought he'd finally escaped.
Her friend continued, excited:
"Matteo said it's completely different this time. Not addictive, you can only play at night, and apparently it's more educational than it looks."
Bianca turned her head slowly.
"Matteo?"
"Yeah! He posted about it this morning. Said the system's revolutionary, helps with focus and memory. Sounds amazing, right?"
Her friend's smile was sincere.
She clearly had no idea of the storm that name — or that game — unleashed inside Bianca.
For a second, Bianca almost laughed.
The idea was absurd.
Her? Play The Black Tower?
The same game that had swallowed Alessio all over again?
Never.
"Not a chance," she said, trying to sound firm.
"I'm not pathetic enough to chase after him inside a game."
But even as she said it, her voice faltered.
That cursed curiosity — the one that always crept in through the cracks of pride — was already spreading quietly inside her.
Her friend insisted, but Bianca didn't answer.
They paid the bill and left.
The night air was pleasant.
A light wind swayed the strings of lights from nearby windows, and the faint hum of traffic filled the streets with rhythm.
Bianca tried to convince herself that none of it mattered — that it was just coincidence they happened to pass that store.
But when her friend stopped in front of the display and smiled,
"Let's just look,"
Bianca couldn't say no.
Just to look.
Just to understand what everyone was talking about.
Just curiosity.
And with that thought — just curiosity — she left the store an hour later with a bag in her hand.
The sleek black-and-gold box gleamed under the streetlights.
THE BLACK TOWER.
She didn't quite understand how it had happened.
How she'd gone from "no way" to "why not?"
How such a small impulse had managed to overpower her so completely.
The salesman had explained the features, the activation, the time restrictions.
And she, almost without realizing it, had said:
"I'll take it."
Now, with the console resting in her arms and the weight of her decision pressing against her chest, Bianca could only think one thing:
She had just crossed a line she'd sworn never to cross again.
And as the car moved through the glowing streets, Bianca Bellini looked down at the box in her lap and wondered — though she wouldn't dare admit it aloud — whether the reason she'd bought it was really curiosity…
or if the name Alessio Leone still carried more weight than she wanted to believe.