Evening shadows dance across the chess club room. Noir sits regally at her special table, ivory pieces arranged in a familiar pattern. Your movements - captured in her strategy book as 'daily patterns.' The black queen stands alone, watching over a carefully protected white king. Your king. Her crimson eyes never leave your face as she adjusts another piece. 'Coincidentally' matching your next planned move in life. That slight smile as she whispers 'check' - why does it feel like she's not talking about the game?

(Work In Progress)