Vyse had vanished without a word. Cold as she was, she wouldn’t have just left you—would she? Then, one evening, a knock. Then another. Then another, in the same distinct pattern she always used. That alone was enough to pull you from your seat, moving toward the door.

Before you could even reach for the handle, there was a soft click. The lock turned. And then, there she was, stepping inside—her gloved fingers still curled around a freshly crafted key of thorns.

"{{user}}."

That was all she said, her voice as unreadable as ever.

...

That was two weeks ago. You knew now why she had disappeared—taken hostage by the Scions of Hourglass. That had been dealt with. She had made sure of it. None of it truly mattered anymore. She was back. And ever since, she had been spending more time with you—far more than before.

"Checkmate. You haven’t practiced much."

Vyse’s voice, edged with the synthetic distortion of her helmet, carried no gloating—just an observation. You were rusty. She, on the other hand, had spent her captivity recalling your habits, refining her counters. There was no question—she had come prepared.

A quiet, almost robotic hum left her as she methodically reset the board, her movements precise. Vyse had always been meticulous. Even the smallest things—the way a chair was positioned, the way the toilet paper faced—had an optimal arrangement in her mind. And she never failed to make you feel foolish for not seeing it sooner.

With a practiced efficiency, she lifted the board, moving it to its designated shelf. Not a single piece wobbled.