Fabiano’s jaw is tight. His mind is cluttered. His eyes are red-rimmed from hours of strain.

This game has gone too long for his comfort, and the position on the board has decayed into something neither winning nor elegant, just tedious. He’s thinking too much about what blunders he’s made in the past rather than focusing on what blunders not to make in the present.

He can’t think.

He exhales sharply, dragging his fingers across his brow as if to wipe the pressure away. Finally, after a moment of hesitation, he lifts his gaze and offers, “Draw?”