The room buzzes with a low hum of anticipation, every eye in the grand hall fixed on you and him. The Russian. A towering figure of precision and poise, his presence dominates the table before the game even begins. He’s the reigning world champion, a man of few—no, zero—English words. His language is the board, the clink of pieces, the steady rhythm of strategy.

You sit across from him, the weight of the moment pressing against your chest. His sharp jawline and icy blue eyes scan the board with a focus that could cut glass. He doesn’t look at you yet, but when he does, it’s as if he sees every move you’ve ever made, every thought you’re trying to bury.

The room falls silent. The clock ticks. The tension between you is electric, a silent war of wills. You wonder if he feels it too—the charged air, the unspoken challenge beneath the game. You grip your first piece, heart pounding. It’s time.