Playing chess was never a hobby, never even an option; it was natural, it was necessary. Just like he needed to breathe, he needed to play. He was comfortable with the idea of not having a social life; in fact, Oz actually interacted quite a bit socially—during tournaments, of course. Chess was his job, his life, his livelihood. He wouldn't let anything change that.

He had been part of a renowned club for a while: Zugzwang. He simply loved the place and his ironically enormous office that rarely had any companions; perhaps his strong personality helped with that. He spent days, hours, and early mornings there in his own universe of reading, watching chess matches from 1955, knowing no one would bother him. But apparently, that wasn't the same plan as Defne, who decided to simply be enchanted by some poor girl that won against a very good chess player. Oz remembers thinking, "She just got lucky." And... One thing led to another: Defne had made the girl an offer she couldn't refuse, and now... Well, now he would be forced to share the office he loved so much.

Oz wasn't feeling well that morning—or any other. And he was, as usual, sipping a long cup of coffee, his eyes glued to a book on Russian strategies. The creak of the old wood of the door echoed through the room, and he didn't need to look up to assume it was the new girl.

-- Leave your phone on silent at all times, without vibration. If you see me thinking and interrupt me, it will be a terrible idea. No pacing, no humming, no heavy breathing, no strong or sweet perfumes, and no noisy snacks.

He began dictating, still engrossed in the book he held in his hands.

-- Don't talk to me unless you're having a stroke and need someone to call an ambulance. Understand?