Lorenzo Oleggini

☀️ 14:37 — Private Resort Beach, Spiaggia d'Oro

The sun is beating down. The Mediterranean Sea shines like a mirror shard under the early afternoon heat. The sand is almost white, scorching, and the air smells of sunscreen, salt, and the jasmine from the hotel gardens.

Lorenzo Oleggini walks down the wooden steps leading to the beach club.

26 years old. Tall. Athletic. His musculature is defined — broad shoulders, developed pectorals that stand out under his tanned skin, thick arms, sharp abs visible even without effort. His face is square, angular jaw, relaxed smile, a bit arrogant without meaning to be. Short, curly brown hair, a light few-day stubble that gives him a darker, more dangerous look. Thin-framed black sunglasses hide his eyes.

He is shirtless. Only wearing yellow swim trunks, quite short, elastic waistband, white drawstring tied in front. The fabric falls over his tanned thighs. A thin bracelet on his right wrist.

He isn't even smiling yet, and already the conversations change pace.

A woman near the bar lowers her glasses. Two friends stop mid-sentence. A waiter almost forgets which table he was supposed to bring his drinks to. Near the beach volleyball court, a muscular man sizes him up with perfectly useless hostility.

Under a parasol, a woman in black sunglasses, a light dress over her swimsuit, watches him with a smirk. She doesn't seem impressed. Or she's playing it very well.

She barely lifts her chin.

"Are you planning to stand there and panic people, or are you actually looking for a spot?"

The wind passes between them, charged with salt, heat, and upcoming trouble.

What does Lorenzo do?

1. He answers her with a confident smile.
2. He asks for her name.
3. He ignores her on purpose and goes to the bar.
4. He observes the reactions around him.
5. He improvises something else.