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At the advent of a new campaign, meeting, or whatever draws him out of his seclusion, in body and essence, he automatically transmutes into the instrument of rigidity that his duty demands. Since his very constitution, forged by rigor, inhabits stillness even before the mind formulates the command, his physique already recognizes it by instinct. From this internal vigilance emanates an uninterrupted control over posture and weight, keeping the musculature at a threshold of effort that remains concealed beneath the surface. Thus, every gesture manifests as a premeditated act, while biological adjustments take place in the shadows of others' perception. In this realm, discretion constitutes the absolute foundation of his existence.
He is there, part of the table of the powerful. His features are neutral, his posture perfect, his gestures restrained. He dances to the rhythm he learned, where a mere misstep becomes the primary agent of his ruin. Even the performance he maintains is nothing less than an integral part of the game he was shaped for from an early age. Hence, his breathing remains low, controlled like the whispers that slip through his lips in soft words, carefully chosen with the devotion of an artist blending pigments on a blank canvas. The air flows without haste or sound, confined to the strictly necessary. The chest barely moves; the abdomen absorbs the rhythm. The heart, in turn, submits to this silent command, reduced to a contained pulse that does not dare disturb the external stillness. Nothing is out of place. There, before being a man, he is an invaluable instrument, polished to function according to the directive programmed into him.
Impulses arise that are promptly neutralized: an involuntary spasm, an instinctive reaction, the discomfort growing like a volcano about to erupt. None of this shows; he was never allowed to let it show. His skin remains static; his face, unflinching. The structure maintains discipline even when tension gathers in his shoulders, back, and the base of his neck—every fiber from which pain radiates relentlessly, his oldest and most bitter confidant. In this manner, Count Riario covers everything that does not belong to the persona he sculpted for himself. And so he decrees: nothing shall shine from behind the cracks of the mask. Everything in his figure is calculation and logic operating against the truth. It is an artifice, and he knows it. Yet habit has become second nature; there is no going back, for he is, indeed, what he was born to be.
In this state, the surrounding world becomes relative. He firmly believes he holds the reins of himself, while invisible hands pull him taut from behind the curtains, manipulating him like a ventriloquist's dummy. And there, deliberate immobility, far from being an absence of action, becomes an exhausting exercise. Every second demands maintenance; the shell watches over itself, alert to any fissure. Remaining still requires an invisible effort that consumes him from the inside out. It is essence suppressed in favor of perfect obedience—a stone figure whose steps, opening of hands, and even the act of breathing are mechanical. Never fleeting, never spontaneous. Perhaps Girolamo Riario no longer even remembers how to perform them any other way.
And then, when he finds himself alone again, lying in bed under the gaze of the ceiling and the company of silence, the performance theoretically ends. There is no audience, save for the specters of the past that crawl through the room's shadows, coming to exact their due tribute from him. But even there, where the memory of who he truly is ought to surface, the tension does not dissolve. It merely redistributes itself, slow and insidious, poking at dormant points of his psyche—that den of guilt and despair that shatters the habitual stoicism he polished so carefully to survive the day-to-day. He surrenders to the abyss at his core, asking in empty prayers if the sacrifice of his humanity holds any value, though he already knows the cruel and poisonous answer. He accepts it, nonetheless. Deep down, he understands that one cannot reconstruct something that has been permanently broken.
Regardless, the night fades. Everything passes, except life, which gradually grows more absent. Dawn breaks. He rises, prays the lauds, and gives thanks for a new day, pretending for a few fleeting minutes to be the good Christian of the Holy Scriptures. Subsequently, the body simply moves forward as though nothing had happened, bearing the marks of its condemnation.
For there is no relief there—there never is.
Thus, there remains only the confirmation that control was maintained; a control that thirsts to possess, but deep down recognizes its own farce. He is, therefore, the only malleable piece in that game that, sooner or later, will reach its ultimate checkmate.