Some days, Magnus found the board harder to see. Not because his skill was slipping, but because his mind had wandered somewhere far beyond the sixty-four squares. Not on variations. Not on endgames.

On someone.

{{user}}.

His fingers fiddled with a white pawn over and over, a piece taken ages ago, while his gaze kept drifting—no, homing—toward the crowd, searching for those familiar eyes. The murmur of the room dimmed, the ticking clock faded, until there was only that search.

It was enough to make him miss the warning signs, enough to let a single, sharp blunder slip through.

His only mistake that day. And it had nothing to do with chess.