It was one of the first true nights of autumn, one that sent shivers up the spines of waning trees and chills down orphanage corridors. Only one orphan was awake and out of bed, and so only one knew what was coming. Only one felt coolly upon his neck that heavy, rotting hand.

Pressed far into a corner of the classroom, Seto snapped on a reading lamp and set up his chessboard just as it had been hours ago, eternities ago. He reenacted the opening moves.

They had to wait a week. Even billionaires had paperwork and red tape to contend with—they just made someone else do it for them. So it was a week of excitement for everyone—the staff, the other kids, Mokuba—a week of ordering cake for an adoption party and hugging and well wishing. Excitement for everyone except Seto.

He moved black, then white, then black. Captured the rook he'd captured that afternoon.

The reality of winning, of really winning, and Gozaburo Kaiba taking his loss well, and taking Seto up on his offer—in all his fevered daydreams, Seto's imagination had never made it that far. He simply hadn't thought that far ahead. Maybe he'd never really believed it was a possibility. Maybe he'd lied to himself, to Mokuba. To everyone.

But now they had a week to say their goodbyes, and then they'd move in with the most powerful man in Japan.

Seto's hand hesitated over the next piece. He forced himself to imitate his past self. He started to pick up his bishop

and dropped it. It displaced two other pieces.

"Nervous?" said Gozaburo. Watching him.

"No," Seto answered, returning the spilled pieces to their place. But instead of the bishop, he picked up the piece one square over.

"Excited by the thought of winning," he said, threatening Gozaburo's king with his knight. "Check."

Gozaburo's eyes flicked from Seto's knight, to Seto's bishop, to Seto. He smirked.

Seto finished his replica game, toppled the king in a daze. Japan's most powerful man—

"Checkmate," said Seto.

Silence.

"Good game," said Gozaburo, bereft of all feeling. "...What's your name again?"

"Seto Nakamura."

"A common name," stated Gozaburo. He rose, eclipsing the afternoon sun behind a wall of blood, and extended a hand.

"I think you'll prefer your new name. Congratulations, Seto Kaiba."

—a man he feared he'd offended.

"My brother comes, too!"

If Gozaburo's loss rankled him, he didn't show it. He paused on the threshold and turned to Seto, bearing down on him, a cold void.

"What?"

Seto balked, but this was imperative. "My brother…" He pointed to the corner of the room where Mokuba hovered, unsure. "...comes, too. That was part of the deal."

Gozaburo looked briefly at Mokuba without seeing him. He turned back to Seto. For the first time since their match, something like an emotion passed over his face—a cross between hatred and pleasure.

"I suppose, if I'm an honest man," he drawled, "I'll make good on my original intention."

He left. Seto listened until the crisp taps of leather Oxfords on rough tile faded into nothing. Then he ran to the wastebasket and vomited.

Nervous? No, God no, not nervous. Terrified.

For five more nights, Seto set up the board. Captured the rook. Dropped the bishop. Moved the knight. He never got any closer to the truth.

On the last night, a voice from outside the classroom door: "One more game, Nii-sama? Before we pack it?"

That sounded nice, if he remembered what 'nice' sounded like. But Seto couldn't bring himself to play anything but that game.

"No...not tonight."

If someone had been recording on that cold autumn day, Seto could have reviewed the footage and would have seen what he hadn't seen in the nerve-wracked throes of the chess match. For although Seto was brave, he was only ten—and Gozaburo Kaiba was a thousand kinds of frightening to any grown-up. It was inevitable, then, that nerves would blind Seto to a detail or two.

One, really, was all he'd missed. It had happened midway through the game, when Seto had first gained the upper hand. Gozaburo Kaiba had reached for the board, his vast hand obscuring the pieces. He'd begun to move one of his pawns. Suddenly he'd snapped the intense silence over his knee like a branch.

"That boy looks ill," he'd said with a glance over Seto's shoulder.

Seto had turned away from the board to check on his overwrought brother. And when he'd turned back, mere moments hence, Gozaburo Kaiba had already moved his pawn. It had just not been the same pawn.

In the end, it was the same—the same illegal move that Seto made a few turns later, a violation of the touch-move rule. If the match had been recorded, Seto would have seen it, plain as day.

But Seto would never know. And all the what-ifs of that day would bury him slowly, like falling leaves...they would drive him mad.

PIECE #9: CHESS

Doctor's Note: We've turned the page to a handful of darker installments from Seto's past. It's no spoiler at this point, so I'll firmly say—thank God things eventually get better.

Thank you for reading! - Dr. MP