The door of the limousine opened with a hiss, revealing a cabin so long and polished it could’ve doubled as a hallway in a private jet. Rich mahogany panels lined the interior walls, dim golden light reflecting off their smooth finish. Plush leather seats wrapped around the sides like a private amphitheater—silent, reverent, and far too expensive for comfort. At the center, nestled between two crystal tumblers of aged scotch and a silver tea service, sat a hand-carved ivory chessboard.Peter stepped in cautiously, feeling the air shift the moment the door clicked shut behind him. It wasn’t the coolness of the AC that chilled him.It was presence.Across from him sat the Chancellor of Monte Carlo Gambling University. Not a man. Not even a legend. A force.Immaculately dressed in a bespoke navy suit with a dark satin cravat, the Chancellor moved with a kind of deliberate stillness, his long fingers gliding across the chessboard like he was shaping time itself. His eyes—silver, hawk-like

---- --- The pieces clicked into place again. Peter looked down at the reset board and for the first time since the limo ride began, he tried something unorthodox. Knight to f3. The Chancellor raised a brow slightly—barely perceptible, but just enough to register. Pawn to d5. Peter hesitated. That was new. The Chancellor was adjusting. Not using the same opening sequence. Peter adjusted in turn. Knight to c3. Pawn takes pawn. Peter exhaled slowly. He was still in it. Longer than any previous round. Move four. He decided to develop his bishop—bishop to c4. The Chancellor took one second to scan the board, then moved queen to d6. The tempo was off. Peter felt it—not a sense of control, but a slow detachment from helplessness. His mind was grinding through possibilities, half a second behind, always half a step from insight. Move five. Peter castled. It was sloppy. Defensive. But necessary. The Chancellor didn’t respond. His hand hovered for a moment, as if to draw o

The Monte Carlo Chancellor’s Tower loomed above them like a black rook etched against the stormy sky. Peter had never been inside before — the gates weren’t barred, just... uninviting. Like the kind of place you didn’t step into unless summoned. And now, here he was, trailing behind Noir, the Queen herself, as she marched toward the lion’s den.She didn’t knock.She didn’t need to.The guards at the door recognized her instantly. One of them, a young man in a stiff gray uniform, barely managed to stammer out, “Miss Noir, the Chancellor is currently—”“About to be interrupted,” she said coolly.The doors opened.Inside, the chamber was exactly what Peter imagined — marble floors that felt colder than they looked, windows tall enough to swallow a cathedral, and in the center: a raised, circular desk with a throne-like chair behind it.There sat the Chancellor. Frank.Still in the same three-piece suit. Still playing his solo chess game. Still impossibly composed.He didn’t look up.“No

The ceremonial chess clock buzzed softly as the Chancellor tapped it with a controlled flick of his fingers. The timer began — a ten-minute blitz countdown.Noir opened with e4.Classic. Aggressive. A Queen’s Pawn gambit. It was a declaration more than a strategy: I’m not afraid of you.The Chancellor smirked. He replied with c5 — the Sicilian Defense. Equally aggressive. A test of precision, prediction, and pressure.Peter stood at the edge of the room, spine straight, hands clenched behind his back. He had never seen Noir look like this before. This wasn’t the same young woman who used to joke with him during card games or leave cryptic riddles on his door. This was someone else entirely.Noir, the Queen.But even so, her eyes carried something different from the Chancellor’s — less sharp-edged malice, more burning purpose.Click.The Chancellor made his second move. Click. Noir mirrored it. Click. Click. Pieces moved with the rhythm of a ritual. Their hands moved like dancers, flic

Round Six.This time, there was no introduction. No glib remark from the Chancellor. No dramatic reset. Just the faint sound of the wind pressing against the tall windows, and the distant tick of a grandfather clock in the hall.Peter hadn’t realized it, but everyone had stopped whispering. The crowd wasn’t holding its breath anymore — it had simply stopped breathing.Even the air seemed afraid to make a sound.Noir didn’t speak. She just waited.The Chancellor sat across from her like a man walking into his own execution — no illusions left, just grim resolve.He opened with 1. e4Not bold. Not strange.Just… standard.But even Peter could tell it wasn’t about strategy anymore.It was about pride.Noir responded with 1...c5 — the Sicilian Defense.A dangerous reply. Unforgiving. Peter remembered Logan once saying: “The Sicilian doesn’t forgive lazy moves. You either control it or collapse in it.”The Chancellor tried. He really tried.He played the Open Sicilian, fighting for the cen