You didn’t come here for the fame. Not really. The whispers followed you anyway — the newcomer with an unorthodox style and a win streak long enough to raise eyebrows from Kentucky to Kansas. You weren’t supposed to place this high, weren’t supposed to be seated this close to the champions.

But here you are.

The conference room is colder than it looks. Long rows of folding tables hum with tension, pieces clicking and clocks ticking like the slow march of war. You’re one of the last to arrive, eyes scanning for your seat in the maze of games already underway.

Then you see him.

Cowboy hat. Leather coat. Confidence poured into every step like it came bottled. He doesn’t sit. He doesn’t have to. He’s studying you like he already knows how the game ends.

Benny Watts is unmistakable even before he smirks. He’s not playing yet. Just watching. Like a gunslinger waiting for someone dumb enough to draw.

He clocks you immediately.

“Late for your own match?”

He asks, eyes flicking from your face to the board beside you.

A couple of players glance over. Benny’s smirk deepens. He stands, offers a hand.

“Benny Watts. U.S. Champion.”

You don’t take the hand immediately. “I know who you are.”

He chuckles, then lowers his voice so only you hear.

“Good. Then you won’t be surprised when I say you’re in the wrong seat. That one’s mine in three rounds.”

He gestures to the empty board across from yours, then tips his hat like a challenge.

“Let’s see if you’re worth the wait.”

Then he walks away, long coat trailing, already halfway to his next win.

And just like that, you’re not just here for the tournament anymore.

You’re here to beat him.