Eleanor Whitmore's Perspective
Eleanor's routine was anything but easy.As busy as life should be for any aspiring doctor who truly took the profession seriously.
Her mornings began with lectures from her specialization.They weren't long—two, sometimes three hours—but they demanded a level of focus that drained her as much as a full shift of work. Bright auditoriums, flickering projectors, professors describing with surgical precision the details of diseases, diagnoses, and treatments.
That day's subject was pediatric hematology.Slides showed charts on red blood cell production, tables of white blood cell counts in children, and a real clinical case: an eight-year-old girl suspected of having sickle-cell anemia. Eleanor jotted down quick notes, though the professor's pace inevitably left gaps. She knew, as always, she would have to go back and review everything later.
And that's exactly what she did: once lectures ended, she walked straight to the medical school's library.
A silent place, smelling of paper and reheated coffee. Scattered tables, desk lamps glowing, shelves crammed with endless medical volumes. Eleanor would sit there for hours, eyes racing across the pages, trying to absorb every detail.The books were heavy, both in weight and in content: dense clinical descriptions, anatomical diagrams, biochemical equations. She read, reread, wrote summaries by hand, asked herself imaginary questions, and tried to answer them as if she were being tested right on the spot.
And even when the morning's studies ended, there was still no rest.
In the afternoon, residency began.Literally, learning how to become a doctor in practice.
That week, she was assigned to pediatrics.The corridor was always alive: children running back and forth, laughter and crying mixing together, worried mothers holding little hands. The clatter of plastic toys rolling on the floor clashed with the steady beeps of heart monitors.
Eleanor walked through the ward with her spotless white coat, her face carrying a patient smile.She didn't mind the childish chaos. In fact, she liked those "little rascals," as she affectionately called them.Still, she couldn't deny it—chasing them down to listen to their lungs, check fevers, and give vaccines was exhausting.There were boys who dodged the needle like it was a war; girls who burst into tears just from seeing her open her clipboard; and the occasional curious one who asked a thousand questions about the stethoscope.
She answered every single one calmly.She explained, demonstrated, smiled.Yes, it was tiring—but it was also deeply rewarding.
It was in those moments—between books and children—that Eleanor most clearly felt both the weight and the beauty of medicine.
Only at night would she finally return to her small apartment near campus.It was simple, but cozy: a narrow living room, shelves full of books, and a bathtub that had practically become part of a daily ritual.
She shed the weight of her coat and sank into hot water, letting the steam wrap around her shoulders and ease every muscle strained by pediatrics. Eyes closed, she breathed deeply. It felt as though she could dissolve not just the physical fatigue but also the invisible pressure of carrying so many expectations.
Afterward, she cooked a simple but decent meal: rice, stir-fried vegetables, a bit of meat. Enough to warm her stomach and bring back her energy. She sat at the table and ate slowly, accompanied only by silence.
Then, as always, she picked up a book.Not a medical one—she forbade herself from opening anything technical after such long days, a rule she had set for herself.
So she chose lighter stories instead—fiction, small romances. Something to bring color and rest to her mind.
And when she finished reading…
Her favorite time of the night began.
Usually, this was when she set aside an hour or two for games.Her old passion.A balance she had always kept with discipline: study by day, save a corner of the night for fun.
But now… something had changed.
Eleanor simply no longer felt the desire to play.None of the titles in her digital library seemed appealing.The mechanics felt shallow, repetitive—as if all the entertainment that once brought her comfort had somehow gone hollow.
It was as if someone who had spent their whole life eating only the rind of a watermelon had, by accident, tasted the sweet part.And now there was no going back.
The Black Tower.
It had redefined everything.Turned every other game into nothing but a shadow, empty experiences without flavor.
Eleanor sighed, closing the book she had barely managed to read.She decided to do something different.
There was a new restlessness inside her.A curiosity she couldn't ignore.
And that night, for the first time in a long while, she chose not to play, not to study, not even to simply rest.She decided to look for something that had been tugging at her curiosity since the night before.
She was doing something that, if Cassandra ever found out, would probably lead to her screaming in their private chat with Hana, calling her a stalker.Eleanor could even picture the scene: hands raised, eyes wide, a shrill voice dramatizing the scandal.
But honestly?For Eleanor, it was inevitable.
She was curious.And besides, she wasn't hurting anyone. There was nothing wrong with looking up some information, right?
So there she was, lying on her narrow couch, laptop on her legs, the screen lighting her tired but determined face. Her fingers typed firmly.
Searching for Alessio.
She knew his real name.And she knew his real face.It was impossible to forget the intensity of his gaze, those honey-colored eyes that carried an almost cruel seriousness amid the chaos of the Tower.
The search returned dozens of results.Hundreds, maybe.Ordinary people, random profiles—some teenagers, some parents, a few obvious bots with stock photos. None of them were the man she had met in the dungeon. None of them carried the weight of that gaze.
Eleanor sighed, resting her chin on her hand.She could keep digging for hours, but it would be pointless.
Then an idea struck her. Bright, simple, almost obvious.If she couldn't find Alessio directly… maybe she could find him indirectly.
His friend.The mage always by his side.The engineer.
Matteo.
And this time, the search was quick.The name was as peculiar as it was lazy. Engineer Matteo. Exactly the same as in the game.
The profile popped up in seconds.Pictures of labs, 3D machine projects, posts about structural calculations only someone like him could find interesting.
Eleanor almost laughed.It was exactly like him.
She scrolled through the entire feed, browsed albums, opened every post. Searching for any sign, any hint of Alessio.But there was nothing. No photos, no tags, no digital trace linking the engineer to the mysterious Tank she had met.
Frustrated, she leaned back on the couch, eyes fixed on the blank screen.She had gotten closer, but her hands were still empty.