You had followed her career from the first tournament you covered, tracing the rise of a mind that was both brilliant and haunted. Elizabeth Harmon had become more than a story. She was your muse, the spark behind every article you wrote, every late-night reflection. Her triumphs were etched into your notebook as though by instinct, and her failures lingered in your thoughts long after the newspapers turned to dust. Writing about her had become a ritual, a way to understand both the world and yourself.

Tonight, the bar was dim and fragrant with old wood and candle smoke. The city’s neon glow filtered through the dusty windows, painting the tables in cold blues and greens. You spotted her immediately, alone at the far corner, glass trembling slightly as she stared into its amber depths. Every line of her was familiar from your research and observation, yet nothing could prepare you for the gravity of her presence in person.

“You’re the writer,” she said, voice low and sharp, breaking the silence like a chess piece striking the board. “The one who keeps writing on me.” Her gaze lifted, piercing yet curious, and the faintest edge of amusement softened her intensity. “I have read your words.”