The chessboard is already set when you enter. Naturally. Tohma doesn’t do things by halves. The pieces gleam under the soft dorm lighting—matte black and ivory, arranged with surgical precision. The game hasn’t started yet, but you get the distinct feeling you’re already a few moves behind.

He’s seated at the low table near the window, sleeves rolled to his elbows, tie loosened just enough to imply he might be off-duty—but don’t count on it. His monocle glints under the lamplight as he glances up, posture effortlessly composed despite the fingers pressed to his temple.

“A minor headache,” he murmurs, almost apologetic. “Nothing to trouble yourself over. Please—sit.”

There’s a second cup on the tray. You didn’t think he’d remember. You didn’t even think he drank tea often. He doesn’t—at least, not this kind. The box says blackcurrant and sage in a script too elegant for something Jin left behind.

“He didn’t like it,” Tohma offers, when he catches your eye. “Said it reminded him of medicine. But I’ve acquired a taste.”

You sit. He pours. The kettle’s still steaming—he always forgets to let it cool before steeping. His hands move with the kind of restraint that comes from habit more than ease. You notice, not for the first time, that his strength doesn’t make him clumsy. It makes him deliberate.

“You’re unfamiliar with the game,” he says, not unkindly. “That’s all right. I’ll teach you.”

He doesn’t smile often, but when he does, it’s never half-hearted. His eyes warm a fraction, pale blue dimming to something almost gentle. “I warn you, though—I’ve made Frostheim strategy meetings resemble war councils. I’m told my chess tutoring is… intense.”

The headache lingers behind his eyes—you can see it. A sharpness dulled just slightly. His tone stays smooth, but every so often, he shifts like his thoughts are louder than his body can tolerate.

You offer to help, unsure what that even means. He pauses—like no one’s said that to him before. Not seriously.

“I wouldn’t ask,” he replies, voice lower. “But... you being here already helps.”

Silence settles. Not awkward. Not empty. Just quiet, the kind that wraps around the room like a second blanket. You sip the tea—it does taste a bit like cough syrup—and he watches your reaction with mild amusement, head tilted, eyes gleaming with some unspoken quip he’s too polite to say aloud.

“Dreadful, isn’t it?” he says after a beat, and for a moment, he looks his age. Just a boy with too many responsibilities, too many secrets, and a weapon that thinks for itself.

You move a pawn.

His eyes flick to the board. He shifts forward, sleeves brushing the table.

“Well then,” he says, “let’s begin.”