It was a big white padded room, seamless and soft.
And inside it sat children, dozens upon dozens of them, each arranged in neat rows.
Every child looked the same.
White hair.
Pale, almost colourless skin.
Blank, white eyes that stared at nothing and everything.
Each small body wore only a single thing:
A name tag.
A four-digit number.
No names.
Nor identities.
Whether they were clones of one another, or simply the next disposable offspring of [The Mother]. They were Pieces, units designated for deployment or disassembly.
Behind the thick reinforced observation window, two researchers watched the room.
One researcher tapped a clipboard and sighed.
"This batch only has two hundred chess pieces. Did [The Mother] reach the end of her usage cycle?"
The other shook his head. "The higher-ups want to prioritize quality over quantity. The last batch of a thousand kids had a 97% mortality rate. And ever since L Corp collapsed, our energy budget has been gutted. We can't afford to keep [The Mother] producing at full capacity."
"If the shortage continues," the first muttered, "our department won't meet Quota. And if we fail Quota again, we'll starve before the fiscal quarter ends."
Then—
Something in the room caught their eye.
A single child, seated far in the back row.
Long, soft brown hair.
Fair pale skin, but not bloodless.
And eyes blue, unmistakably blue.
Nothing like the blank white of the others.
The researchers exchanged a startled glance.
"…Is that chess piece defective?"
"Hold on," the second researcher said, flipping through a tablet. "I've got the production report from the operator in charge of [The Mother]. Let me pull the file."
"Open the display," the first said. "I want to see it too."
A holographic report bloomed on the glass.
The anomaly child's designation was flagged in red.
Status: Irregular
Projected Classification:[Queen Piece]
Source: DNA instability / code mutation
Operator Notes: "Biological pattern significantly deviates from template."
The researcher skimmed the genetic profile. His eyes widened.
"The DNA sequence is… unique. It can develop more muscle tissue than the standard [Rook Piece]. Growth acceleration surpasses the [Knight Piece]. Cognitive adaptability is faster than the [Bishop Piece]."
The other researcher leaned back, astonished. "Wouldn't it be nice if we, the [Bishop Pieces], had that kind of muscle density? Might finally outrun the disposal quotas."
"Focus," the first snapped. "Look here–our top client, the Izan Syndicate, placed a request tag on it."
"What? I thought they only purchased [Pawn Pieces] from us?"
"They buy more than they advertise. They've got twelve enforcer teams. Only two of them use high-grade Pieces. The rest are filled with standard Pawns."
"Hmph. Those Pawns are physically weaker than us Bishops."
Another line in the report glowed with priority status.
The first researcher frowned.
"I suspect [The Fury] of the Izan wants a successor."
"Well… then the child might get a decent life, if it's chosen for Izan." The second shrugged. "Better than being thrown into industrial labor or battlefield fodder."
The first researcher slowly closed the report.
His voice dropped to a whisper, fragile with a dread he didn't want noted in the logs.
"No," he said.
"I think otherwise."
The two researchers turned their attention back to the room.
The anomaly, the [Queen Piece], had moved.
While every other child sat frozen in their assigned place, staring straight ahead like unplugged machines, the [Queen Piece] walked between the rows with hesitant, uncertain steps.
It leaned down toward another child and whispered something.
The white-haired child didn't react.
Didn't blink.
Didn't even turn its head.
The [Queen Piece] tried again with another, tapping lightly on a shoulder, its eyes full of worry that should not exist in this room.
A soft, confused, almost pleading voice escaped its lips.
"…Are you okay?"
None of the others answered.
They couldn't. Their consciousness had not yet been permitted to exist.
The [Queen Piece] looked around, as if expecting an adult to appear out of nowhere and explain why everyone else was so… still.
A flicker of genuine compassion crossed its face.
The researchers exchanged a grimace.
"Great," one muttered. "It's developed emotional response patterns."
"Such a waste," the other agreed bitterly. "All that physical optimization, that perfect biological structure… and the mind is already tainted by moral reasoning."
"A good body," the first said, tapping the glass with annoyance.
"But a weak mind."
They watched the child kneel beside another motionless Piece and brush a strand of white hair from its face with trembling fingers.
The room was silent from the children, yet something about the image made the researchers uncomfortable.
"It's trying to comfort them," one whispered. "Ridiculous."
"That kind of softness will get it killed," the other said flatly. "Or worse, make it unusable."
The [Queen Piece] continued speaking quietly to the unresponsive bodies, as if trying desperately to confirm that there was someone behind those blank eyes.
But there wasn't.
Not yet.
And the researchers disliked everything about what they were seeing.
_________________
_________
_____
Ten Years Later
The alarm went off at 6:30 AM.
Bruno rolled over, slapped it silent, and stared at the ceiling for a bit. She wasn't late, at the very least not yet, but she was definitely not early enough to enjoy anything resembling a peaceful morning.
She got dressed in her usual E Corp office uniform, a clean white button shirt under a navy vest, and tied her long brown hair into a quick ponytail. She made a mental note that she needed to get the ends trimmed. Not that she ever remembered on weekends.
The commute to the E Corp sub-branch was nothing special. Same crowded walkway bridges, same smell of reheated food carts, same people mumbling about quotas and overtime. Bruno blended right in. She liked it that way.
By 8:54 AM she was seated at her cubicle, logging into her terminal.
Office Assistant & Data Entry – E Corp Logistics.
A stable job. A normal job.
One she'd chosen for herself.
Her fingers typed without looking, muscle memory doing the heavy lifting while her mind wandered. The spreadsheets were the same as yesterday's with shipment volume audits, storage discrepancy logs, late fee documentation. She updated cell after cell.
At 9:30 she clicked open another tab.
A familiar board appeared.
Black and white squares.
A username from some other District wanting a game.
The comforting clack of digital pieces filled her headphones.
If I castle early, they'll push the A-file… maybe I should bait it instead…
The first checkmate of the day felt better than any company "wellness incentive."
No blood.
Just chess.
Around 11:20, her stomach grumbled. She paused the next game and leaned back in her chair, tapping a pen against her knee.
What should I eat today?
The cafeteria was predictable.
The food stalls outside were less predictable but sometimes worth the gamble.
She considered splurging, maybe the udon stand, the one she passed every morning but never actually bought from.
Or maybe I should save money this week… rent's due soon…
She sighed. A normal sigh. The kind that belongs to someone with a normal job, a normal budget, and a normal life.
A notification pinged.
More entries to verify.
Back to work.
Bruno flexed her fingers, cracked her knuckles once, and returned to typing at the required speed of 110 words per minute. Her mind drifted again.
The past felt very distant.
Almost like a bad dream she'd woken up from a long time ago.
An E Corp salary worker with a mild caffeine addiction, a love for online chess, and exactly forty-three minutes until lunch.
Bruno stood up from her terminal, chair sliding back with a soft scrape. Her eyes drifted to the photo taped beside her monitor—its edges curling slightly from months of office air.
She lifted it between her fingers.
A middle-school gymnasium.
Her and Shmuel side by side, both in their old uniforms.
Bruno with a gold medal glinting against her chest.
Shmuel with a silver, smiling like he didn't mind losing at all.
She always wondered why her father had insisted on that education in the Nest. Why he paid for tutors, uniforms, test fees. Why he allowed her to spend her time on chess clubs and academic tournaments instead of training with the other rook pieces. Why he gave her a childhood that didn't match the life he wanted her to live.
Her body was still built like the [Queen Piece] she was born to be, but her skills had dulled, soft around the edges like paper left out in the rain.
She knew it.
He knew it.
The disownment notice had arrived not through a letter, but through an Izan captain
"Your father no longer recognizes you as a daughter.
Return to the Izan if you wish to reclaim your name."
Those words had lodged in her stomach like wet cement.
She'd been uneasy for weeks. Her typing slower, her chess games distracted, her sleep lighter than paper.
Bruno set the photo down gently.
Her cheeks warmed slightly at the thought. Shmuel.
Who would probably tease her.
Probably worry about her too much.
She opened her drawer, pulled out the envelope she'd prepared. Inside was her leave request. Three weeks of absence. A vague reason written in professional phrasing that boiled down to family matters, because she didn't want to give the slightest hint of her real situation.
She took a breath, squared her shoulders, and walked with steady steps toward the Human Resources mail receipt station. A tired office worker sat behind the glass window, barely glancing up as she slid the envelope through the slot.
He stamped it. Filed it.
She turned and walked away.
No going back now.
Outside, the air smelled like lake humidity and steam from nearby food stalls. Her stomach rumbled again. She still hadn't eaten since morning. She scanned the street with noodle vendors shouting prices, skewers sizzling on grills, the sound of someone chopping herbs on a metal table.
She inhaled deeply.
Bruno tucked her hands into her pockets and stepped into the backstreet crowd, just another ordinary salary worker looking for a meal.
Rain began thin at first, then heavy enough to blur the neon signs into trembling halos. Bruno reflexively lifted her hands over her head and jogged toward the nearest awning, shoes slapping against the wet pavement.
A convenience store sat tucked between two laundromats. Its automatic doors opened, warm fluorescent light spilling out to meet her. She stepped inside, brushing damp hair out of her eyes.
She bought the cheapest umbrella she could find, a sky-blue with white cartoon ducks printed on it. The cashier scanned it without looking at her, murmuring the total. Bruno paid, popped it open, and stepped back out into the rain–
–only to freeze.
There was a noise behind the store.
Soft.
Weak.
A little cry swallowed almost entirely by the sound of rainfall.
Bruno hesitated. The street in front of her was busy and bright; behind the store was a narrow, darker alley. She listened again.
Another sound.
A tiny, desperate mewl.
She sighed and turned toward it.
Behind the convenience store, half sheltered by a broken metal awning, was a mother cat–thin enough that every bone in her body cast a shadow. Her fur clumped from the rain. Her eyes looked half-dazed with exhaustion. Three kittens huddled against her belly, too weak even to meow loudly.
Bruno knelt down, her umbrella tilting awkwardly to cover them.
"…You haven't eaten in days, huh?"
The mother cat didn't hiss or move. She only blinked slowly.
She stood, hurried back into the convenience store, ignoring the dripping trail her umbrella left on the tiles.
"Cat food," she muttered to herself, scanning the aisles.
She grabbed two small cans of wet food and a packet of kitten formula, paid quickly, and ran back out into the rain.
The mother cat flinched when Bruno approached again. Bruno knelt beside her and used a key to pry open the first can. The smell drifted through the rain–strong, salty.
"Here," she said softly, pushing the food closer. "Eat first. Please."
The mother cat hesitated… then dipped her head and ate as if remembering how. The kittens stirred faintly.
Bruno exhaled a breath she didn't know she'd been holding.
"Good… good," she murmured. "You're doing great."
The rain continued falling, soaking her sleeves, her shoes, her hair. But she stayed kneeling there, umbrella tilted protectively over a mother and her kittens, waiting until every scrap of food was gone.
Only then did she stand up, wipe her hands on her skirt, and whisper,
"…Alright. Lunch. Then Kamina's office."
She stepped back out of the alley.
Bruno spotted the sign by accident–a wooden placard hanging crooked from a rusted nail, an arrow painted in soft beige pointing into a narrow side-alley.
"UDON • HANDMADE • HOT BROTH
Just Ahead →"
A warm thought stirred inside her chest.
Udon sounds nice… Maybe something warm before I visit Kamina's office…
A simple wish. A tiny comfort.
A hope so ordinary it almost felt like a prayer–
May I eat something warm today.
May today not be so cruel.
May I die someday with a peaceful mind.
She followed the arrow.
The alley was narrow, the kind where the sky became a tight strip between leaning buildings. The rainwater dripped from metal balconies above, splattering in uneven rhythm. Bruno's steps were soft, almost hesitant.
Halfway down the alley, something flickered above her.
A whisper of steel.
Then–
SHUNK
Her left arm fell to the ground before she even registered the pain.
Bruno staggered, a hot burst of blood spraying against the brick wall, painting it in a violent fan. She spun just too slow.
A figure dropped from above. White uniform. White hair. White eyes.
A Knight Piece.
The Knight landed with both feet planted squarely, sword still extended from the downward arc that took Bruno's arm. The attacker moved again without hesitation. A forward thrust aimed at her throat.
Bruno twisted her torso left, her right arm snapping out in a counter-hook, her superior muscle fibers tensing.
But before her strike could land, something slammed into her from the side:
CRACK
A long staff whipped downward with perfect angle and timing, smashing into Bruno's left shin.
Her bone broke instantly.
Her leg folded under her like wet paper. Her body dropped to one knee, breath torn out of her lungs.
The attacker who wielded the staff stepped forward—flowing, controlled.
A Bishop Piece.
Then the third arrived.
A blur of white surged from the alley's mouth, spear aimed like a bolt of lightning.
A Rook Piece
They lunged, spear tip driving clean through Bruno's right arm, pinning it to the wall with a wet sound.
Bruno didn't scream.
Pain shot through her spine, her ribs, her skull.
Her left hand crawled across the wet ground, fingers twitching. Her muscles coiled, twisting, writhing.
Her forearm jerked upward unnaturally and stitched itself back to her stump, muscle fibers knitting, veins hooking together, nerves clamping like grappling hooks.
Her flesh pulled taut and sealed.
Bruno inhaled sharply.
Her leg spasmed, bone fragments grinding. Tendons burst outward, grabbed themselves, and knotted back into alignment.
The spear still pinned her right arm, but her fingers flexed, trembling and then muscle cords slithered out from the wound and latched onto the spear shaft.
She ripped herself free with a violent wrench.
The Knight Piece sprinted first. Their sword swung in a horizontal slash with clean footwork, step-slide. Bruno ducked low, her newly reattached arm went forward in a hammerfist to the Knight's ribs.
They blocked with their forearm but the force still sent them skidding back.
The Bishop closed distance in a blink, staff spinning in a sweeping circle aimed at her temples.
Bruno leaned back and braced her palms on the ground, flipping upward in a scissor kick. Her heel cracked into the Bishop's jaw, sending them stumbling.
The Rook used the opening.
Their spear thrusted in a straight-line jab.
Bruno twisted sideways, letting it graze her ribs, then grabbed the spear shaft with both hands and yanked the Rook forward. She rammed her forehead into their nose and felt cartilage snap.
Her arms dislocated from the force but reattached immediately, muscles latching back on like hungry worms.
The Knight lunged again with an overhead slash.
Bruno pivoted, caught the Knight's wrist, and used her enhanced muscle strength to twist their arm until it snapped backward at the elbow. The Knight hissed but stayed standing.
The Bishop surged in with a thrust to her gut.
Bruno seized their staff, pulled them forward, and drove her knee into their sternum–her reconnected leg shaking violently but holding.
Bruno deflected the Knight's sword with the broken spear shaft she'd taken. Parried the Bishop's staff with a hooked elbow. Evaded the Rook's sweeping cut by dropping into a split and rising with a punch aimed at the carotid.
All while her own limbs were tearing, snapping, reattaching, reknitting with each motion.
Flesh opened. Flesh closed.
Muscle ripped. Muscle formed again.
Pain came. Pain drowned under adrenaline.
The alley stank of blood and rain.
Her own heartbeat thundered through her skull.
She didn't know if she would live.
But as she met their eyes, the three perfect pieces, she had been meant to stand beside—
Bruno felt something strangely calm slip into her thoughts.
I hope… I hope I die with a peaceful mind.
Bruno's limbs stopped responding. Bone refused to regrow. Muscles refused to crawl back together. Flesh dangled without will. Her body had exhausted the miracle that kept her standing. She lay against the wet concrete, rainwater soaking into her hair, streaking down her cheeks as a blessing no one offered.
Her breaths trembled. The quiet wish that her ending would not betray the small peace she had managed to build.
She lifted her head toward the Bishop Piece.
"Why… why did father order you to take me now and not let me walk to him myself?"
The Bishop tilted its head, hood dripping rain.
"[The Fury] does not wait for a fruit ripening on its own branch. The season narrows. The clock inside you swells. The rind thins. Your sweetness breaks through. He comes to gather what would otherwise burst."
Bruno tasted blood in her mouth, metallic and warm, running down her tongue like the last thing her body could give her. She turned her gaze toward the Knight Piece, the one who had sliced through her arm so cleanly it felt merciful compared to the rest.
"What… what will happen to me?"
The Knight knelt, sword tip resting beside her face.
"Your brain will be recycled. Emotion reached its limit. Compression turns it into strength. A harvest."
A harvest.
Bruno's sight blurred, but the Rook Piece's shadow still loomed, spear still dripping from her right arm.
"Will I… be the same?"
The Rook answered.
"No."
The gentleness of the word harmed more than any blow. It left no room for misunderstanding, no false comfort.
She would not continue. Not as Bruno. Not as anyone Shmuel would recognize. Not as anyone could still regret or hope.
Rain kept falling. A steady rhythm. A rhythm that felt like someone unseen whispering a farewell she wished she could believe in.
Bruno smiled through the pain–a small, fragile thing, softer than the blood pooling under her.
"I wish… I could play chess with Shmuel one more time…"
She wanted to meet Shmuel again–wanted it with a hunger deeper than fear, deeper than the pain of her body falling apart. She wanted one moment, even a sliver, where her existence touched his again.
Not to be saved.
Not to be forgiven.
Not to explain anything.
Just to be near him, even if her mind would be altered, even if her memories would be dissolved into something unrecognizable.
She wished she could leave him a trace.
A hint.
She focused on her heartbeat. That last organ still pulsing with her will. She poured everything into it, raw emotion she could no longer shape into speech. She tuned her dying heart the way a player adjusts a piece before a decisive move. She twisted the pulse, carved the rhythm into a signal. The muscle would remember. Even if her brain was stripped to nothing, the heart would hammer wildly the moment Shmuel was near. It would shout what she could not: There you are. I am still searching for you.
Her life had always been a chess piece.
And it had always remained only that.
She had noticed it when she was young. The strange way choices were made around her instead of by her, the way every direction she walked already felt like a path someone else laid out. But knowing did nothing. A piece on the board could not rebel. A piece moved when commanded. A piece died where it was placed. Philosophy was the only freedom offered to those who were meant to obey. And she embraced it the way a drowning person embraces air just before sinking.
People always said the queen was the strongest. They were wrong. The queen was only dangerous because she was allowed to be.
A rook was not valuable.
A knight was not valuable.
A bishop was not valuable.
A pawn was not valuable.
No piece ever had value on its own.
Value came from context. From position. From the mean assigned by the one who played the game. A pawn on the far file could be priceless. A queen cornered by her own king could be worthless. Every piece existed inside an arrangement decided before they were even touched. And they carried that fate without complaint.
She realized her whole existence had been that of movements determined by someone else's strategy. Her father's. Even fate itself, playing an unkind game she was never taught the rules of.
She had been a Queen Piece once.
Because she was useful.
She would remain a piece after this.
Because she had never been allowed anything else.
Still, her final wish lingered, holding its shape even as her consciousness faded at the edges.
To meet Shmuel again.
To stand near him long enough for the heart she rewrote to declare itself.
To let him feel, even for a heartbeat, the compassion she never managed to give voice to.
If she could not keep her mind…
If she could not keep her name…
If she could not keep her life…
Then let the heart speak for her.
Let the message reach him.
I am still here. Even now. Even changed. Even gone.
She poured love into her heart.
Love so heavy it cracked the ribs around it, love so fierce it refused to fade even as everything else inside her dimmed. She shaped that love with the last threads of will she still possessed. Every beat became love, every pulse a fragment of love, every trembling contraction a stubborn declaration of love.
She repeated the feeling inside her again and again—love for Shmuel, love for the boy who once played chess beside her, love for the only person who ever made her feel like she was more than a piece on someone's board. She pushed that love deeper, engraving it into the muscle, binding it to the rhythm so tightly that not even memory erasure could wash it away. She wanted the heart to scream love whenever he came near. She wanted it to hammer with love, to resonate with love, to jolt her altered mind with love she would no longer remember having.
Her life was collapsing around her but love still moved inside her chest, beating slower yet stronger, a wounded engine of love that refused to stop.
She poured more love, forcing her fading consciousness into the heart's fibers. She imagined the moment when she would stand before Shmuel again, changed beyond recognition but with her heart still thrashing with love, frantic with love, desperate with love.
Every piece she had ever been, every role she had ever been forced to play, every label the world pinned onto her. It was all irrelevant compared to this.
She loved him.
She had loved him quietly, loved him fearfully, loved him in ways she never understood, loved him in ways she wasn't allowed to.
And now she loved him with the totality of her dying self.
She imagined the heart glowing with love, pulsing with love, reshaping itself with love, refusing to let the world erase that love.
Her last coherent thoughts spiraled inward, circling one emotion, one intention, one offering she could still give:
Love for Shmuel.
Love buried in muscle.
Love guarded in the dark.
Love waiting to be awakened.
Love as her last rebellion.
Love as her last truth.
Love as the final move of a Queen Piece who had nothing left but love.
And as her mind began to dissolve at the edges, one echo remained, beating, trembling, whispering through the collapsing ruin of herself.
love
Liebe
amor
愛
حب
любовь
amore
사랑
אהבה
cinta
любов
प्रेम
любоў
mui
प्रेम
liefde
காதல்
παῖς
ලව්
ความรัก
ప్రేమ
amôr
pag-ibig
प्रेम
mahal
အချစ်
ຮັກ
ສະເໜີ
אהב
szeretet
љубав
armastus
upendo
pendo
ప్రేమ
любовь
愛
愛
愛
愛
love
amor
사랑
amore
любовь
حب
愛
liefde
愛
любов
love
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愛
l
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a m o r
a m o r
a m o r
愛愛愛愛愛
사랑사랑사랑
حبحبحب
любовьлюбовьлюбовь
love—
Liebe—
amor—
愛—
любовь—
사랑—
حب—
amore—
cinta—
pag-ibig—
любовь—
l o v e
l o v e
l o v e
愛
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amoramoramor
loveLoveLOVE
LiebeLiebe
사랑사랑
愛愛愛
LOVE
LO̷V̷E̷
L̵O̵V̵E̵
L O V E
愛
amor
love
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любовь
사랑