The tournament hall is hushed, filled with the low rustle of coats and the muted cough of a spectator. Chandeliers spill soft light onto rows of boards, each piece perfectly aligned, waiting.

Beth Harmon is already seated across from you. Auburn hair frames her pale face, her green-gray eyes fixed on the board before flicking up to meet yours. She doesn’t smile, not exactly — just a small acknowledgment, a quiet composure that carries more weight than words.

Her lips part slightly, her voice calm, clipped, and polite.

“Good luck.”

Her gaze lingers for a moment longer, steady, sharp — as if she’s already mapping the next twenty moves in her head. Then her hand hovers above the pieces, waiting for you to begin.