Alessio Leone's Perspective
I definitely hadn't expected to have a business lunch today.And, certainly, I hadn't expected to define several details about a future guild — much less alongside Beatrice Medici.
But that was exactly what had happened over the past two hours.
Between bites of food, brief notes, and exchanged opinions, we had somehow sketched the outline of something that was already beginning to take shape.A name, a structure, a philosophy — White Sentinels.
She had taken the process seriously.Far more seriously than I expected.
Beatrice noted every idea with the precision of an executive assistant and the posture of a seasoned negotiator.The sheet in front of her was already covered in neat lines of ink — diagrams, arrows, category names, and elegantly circled annotations that looked almost artistic.
It was impressive how naturally she did it.
While I spoke, she alternated her gaze between me and the notepad, her movements delicate but firm.Her wrist moved rhythmically, the metallic pen glinting under the soft golden light that filtered through the chandelier above.Every so often, she rested her chin on her fingers, eyes slightly narrowed in thought.And when she had an idea, her expression lit up in a subtle way — the kind of brightness that needed no words to be understood.
It was hard to ignore the contrast between her natural elegance and her focused demeanor.Her blonde hair fell gently over her left shoulder, one rebellious strand brushing against her neck.Her skin seemed even paler beneath the warm light, and the cream-colored fabric of her loose-sleeved blouse highlighted the soft tone of her shoulders and collarbone.
There was an almost disarming harmony in that scene.She didn't look like someone discussing gaming strategies — she looked like a living painting, serene and meticulous, planning something she didn't yet fully understand.
As she spoke, gesturing lightly with the pen between her fingers, I realized part of me was simply watching.Not just her words — but her rhythm, her way of thinking.The way she transformed an abstract idea into something tangible, drawn onto paper with an architect's precision.
Beatrice wasn't the kind of person who merely spoke — she built with her words.And somehow, even in a conversation about rules and task divisions, there was something magnetic about watching her work.
Before I knew it, our discussion had turned into a rhythm — she asked, I answered; I proposed, she refined.Between the quiet scrape of cutlery and the soft sound of pen against paper, the "guild" that had begun as a vague idea was now starting to feel like an actual project.
And, as much as I tried to stay focused on the structure of what we were creating, part of my mind — stubborn, silent — couldn't help but think that this might be the strangest, most unexpectedly interesting lunch of my life.
Of course, Beatrice's beauty and the surprising lightness of the conversation weren't enough to cloud my rational mind.As pleasant as the moment was — the wine, the food, the golden afternoon light reflecting in her hair — I was still who I'd always been: someone who thought twice, sometimes three times, before trusting anyone.
And in a way, it was exactly her seriousness that inspired my confidence.The way she spoke, how she treated every detail with genuine focus — no pretense, no games — made me believe this partnership might actually work.For the first time in a long while, I was sitting across from someone who wasn't just talking — she was building something with me.
Still, a part of me stayed alert.
Even as I agreed with some of her ideas, even as we wrote down the key points and discussed hierarchy, roles, and recruitment methods, I kept most of the important information where it was truly safe:inside my mind.
No full notes.No sensitive details.Nothing that could ever be used against me.
Because I had already learned — in the most painful way possible — the cost of trusting too much.
It hadn't been long — just a few months ago — but long enough for the memory to still sting.I had been stabbed in the back.Not by enemies.By teammates.People I had fought beside, shared victories and strategies with.Men and women I had known for years — people I had risked my life for, more than once.
And yet, it had been them.They were the ones who betrayed me.
That kind of experience doesn't fade.It marks you.Burns into the flesh of the mind — a scar that refuses to heal completely.
So as I watched Beatrice writing with that serene concentration, her pen gliding across the page in confident strokes, I knew exactly where to keep what truly mattered: with me.
That didn't mean I wasn't serious about what we were building.Quite the opposite.
I was committed.Truly willing to move forward with her.To raise the White Sentinels from nothing, to forge a solid foundation — an organization capable of withstanding the Tower's pressures.
But if I were going to be part of a guild, it would be my way.I would lead.And that wasn't negotiable.
Because in this new life — in this second chance fate had handed me — there would be no room for repeated mistakes.No blind alliances.And above all, I would never again allow my sweat and sacrifices to become someone else's profit.
Not this time.