The hot water kept running down Michael's face, taking away not only the physical traces of prison, but also the tension built up in every second he'd calculated so meticulously since his escape. He stayed there for a few more moments, letting the steam take over the bathroom and fog the mirror, savoring the feeling of freedom that the isolation of this apartment gave him.
When he turned off the tap, the silence of the space returned, broken only by the sporadic dripping of the shower. Michael grabbed a fluffy towel and dried himself slowly, without the rush the prison protocol demanded. He walked to the bedroom and opened the wardrobe, choosing an outfit that was completely ordinary and discreet: dark jeans, a soft black cotton t-shirt, and a gray sweatshirt. He got dressed, feeling the comfort of civilian fabrics — a brutal contrast to the stiffness of the inmate uniform and the synthetic texture of the guard's outfit he'd worn hours earlier.
When he returned to the living room, his eyes immediately fixed on the floor, where the discarded guard uniform lay. With methodical, precise movements, he crouched down, picked up the pieces, and began smoothing them out. He folded the pants, aligning the seams perfectly, followed by the shirt and the dark jacket. He placed the set neatly over the back of the wooden dining chair, as if he were filing away another completed stage of his mission.
Next, he headed to the open kitchen. His stomach was asking for something warm and comforting, far from the bland food of the detention hall. Michael filled a small kettle with water and lit the blue flame on the stove. While waiting for it to boil, he took a box of chamomile and mint tea from one of the cabinets and selected a tea bag.
With the extra time the water needed to heat, he walked to a low cabinet in the living room. He opened the bottom drawer and, feeling along the back, pulled out a heavy solid-wood chessboard, its ebony and ivory pieces stored in a velvet-lined compartment inside. He carried the board to the main table and opened it carefully. One by one, he positioned the pieces on their squares: rooks on the corners, knights, bishops, the royalty in the center, and the line of pawns in front. Each click of wood against the board echoed satisfyingly through the empty apartment.
The hissing sound of the kettle announced that the water was at the perfect temperature. Michael turned off the flame, poured the steaming liquid over the black ceramic mug, and watched the infusion slowly darken the water. He picked up the mug by the handle, feeling the heat warm his hands, and walked back to the chess table.
Sitting in the chair across from the one holding the folded uniform, Michael took the first sip of tea. The herbal taste brought an additional wave of clarity. Looking at the board, he began playing against himself.
His mind, used to predicting multiple scenarios at once, split into two factions. His right hand moved the white pieces with an aggressive, territorial strategy; his left hand answered for the black pieces with surgical defense and fast counterattacks. He shifted his posture in the chair, leaning forward like the attacker, then pulling back like the defensive strategist. In fewer than ten moves, the white pieces trapped the enemy king.
"Checkmate," he murmured to the empty room.
Without completely resetting the setup, he rearranged the affected quadrants and restarted the line of reasoning. New sequence, new attack lines. The white king fell shortly after, caught in a trap set by the black pieces. He repeated the process several times in a row, defeating and crowning himself in a continuous cycle of pure logic, where every mistake made by one side was immediately punished by the brilliance of the other.
Time flowed by until Michael realized he'd taken the last sip of his tea. The mug was now cold and empty. He stood up, holding the black ceramic, and walked to the kitchen sink. He turned on the tap, washed the mug meticulously with a sponge, rinsed it, and placed it upside down on the drying rack — maintaining his usual habit of order.
When he returned to the living room, he looked at the board that was still open on the table, displaying a complex and seemingly locked configuration from the last interrupted game. Both forces appeared deadlocked in a high-pressure scenario in the center. Michael approached in silence and stopped standing next to the table. He analyzed the position for a few seconds, eyes half-closed.
With the tip of his index finger, he touched the top of his black Bishop and slid it diagonally across four squares, placing it on the vulnerable flank of the opponent's King, with no chance of escape or coverage by other pieces. An inevitable checkmate, ending the round with one single, decisive final move.
Satisfied with the resolution of the problem, Michael stepped away from the table and walked to the large window overlooking the side street of the building. He pulled the curtain back slightly and looked out at the city's nighttime landscape, where the streetlights created pools of yellow light on the wet asphalt.
His mind drifted far from there. He fixed his gaze on the horizon, thinking about how things must be at Headquarters right now.