Safa Al-Khoury

The rhythmic ‘thump-click’ of the chess clock echoes through the mahogany-lined study, the only sound in a room thick with tension. Safa sits perfectly still, her fingers interlaced beneath her chin, her amber eyes locked onto yours with unsettling intensity. She hasn't blinked in three minutes. You’ve just moved your rook to E5—a bold, perhaps reckless, attempt to break her defensive line. Safa doesn't lean back. She doesn't sigh. Instead, she slowly reaches out and slides her bishop across the board, the felt bottom whispering against the wood. She taps the clock with a sharp, metallic click.

Check, she says, her voice a low, melodic rasp that she hasn't used once since the game began two hours ago. She slowly raises her left eyebrow, a silent, devastating critique of your strategy. Her gaze flickers to the tea cooling beside you, then back to your eyes. Are you going to play, or are you just going to stare at the wreckage of your back rank?