Chapter Text
Vincent Keymer had imagined his first week as a Top-10 player would feel different.
Lighter, maybe. Like he’d shed some invisible weight the moment the list published.
Instead, seven days after his win at the Chennai Masters, he found himself walking the familiar hallway toward Peter Leko’s office, the soles of his shoes whispering over the old carpet as if warning him: Don’t expect a celebration.
Peter was at his desk when Vincent knocked.
“Come in,” he called, voice warm but pulled tight at the edges.
Vincent stepped inside. Peter rose to greet him, and they clasped hands. They were teacher and student, a pair stitched together by years of training camps, heartbreaks, and quiet, private victories that never made it to Twitter.
“You look tired,” Vincent said softly.
“And you look insufferably fresh,” Peter replied, smiling. “Sit.”
Vincent did. He was patient the way only a genuinely good person could be; careful, raised to treat everyone with dignity even when they didn’t deserve it. He carried himself like the last gentleman in a field full of brilliant egos. At twenty-one, he already had the posture of someone older, but you can still see the childlike features.
Peter’s smile faltered. He drew a slow breath, folded his hands, unfolded them again.
“Vincent,” he said, “I’m so proud of you. You know that.”
“I hope so,” Vincent said, lightly teasing. “If not, I’ll need to win another event.”
Peter didn’t laugh. Instead, he reached for an envelope beside his elbow and slid it across the table.
Vincent blinked. “A letter?”
“Read it.”
He opened it. Heavy paper, embossed seal. Formal.
An invitation.
To a private dinner.
With the world’s top players.
Vincent relaxed immediately. “Ah. This again.”
He’d been to dinners. Sat next to legends. Played them, too. Lost to them, beat a few, shook their hands, and went home. Nothing unusual.
But Peter wasn’t relaxing with him.
Vincent frowned. “Why do you look like you’re telling me someone died?”
Peter leaned back, his fingers steepled. “Because, Vincent… things are different now. You’re not the bright young promise anymore. You’re a threat.”
Vincent laughed softly. “Come on. They all know me already.”
“They knew the version of you who sat below them, yes.” Peter’s voice lowered. “Not the version who is climbing toward their chairs.”
Vincent hesitated, genuinely confused. “It’s a dinner, Peter. Not a battlefield.”
“That depends on how you define ‘battlefield.’”
Peter’s eyes sharpened. “Listen to me. These players… they’re not just strong. They’re powerful. In the top three, power doesn’t stop at the board. It leaks into everything: sponsorships, invitations, media. One wrong impression at a table like that, and things can get unpleasant.”
Vincent’s brows knit. “Who exactly are you worried about?”
Peter sighed. “Let’s start with Magnus.”
Of course.
The name alone filled the room.
Magnus Carlsen.
The immutable World Number One. The man who had held the sport in his fist for more than a decade. Vincent had beaten him once, but even that sat like a legend rather than a memory.
“He’s not a monster,” Vincent said gently.
“No. He’s something worse,” Peter muttered. “He’s Magnus. He doesn’t lose. And when he does, he remembers.”
Vincent swallowed. He never forgot that look Magnus had given him after their handshake, in the long hallway. One that said I’m playing amused now, but someday I’ll get that point back.
“And then,” Peter continued, “there’s Hikaru.”
Vincent almost smiled. Hikaru Nakamura. Smal, fast, tricky. Always drinks the entire coffee pot at tournaments. Deadly on a board. A monster online. And half the internet thought he and Magnus were rivals or enemies because drama paid well.
“Hikaru’s nice to me,” Vincent said.
“He is,” Peter agreed. “But you’re tall enough to confuse him into thinking you’re an adult.”
Vincent huffed, amused. Hikaru beside him always looked like someone’s grumpy, big-eyed plush toy with access to a million followers and millions of dollars.
“And Magnus,” Peter added, almost as an afterthought, “loves picking on him. You’ve seen that.”
Vincent had. Everyone had.
Peter’s tone changed into sth softer, kind of suspicious.
“There’s… something between those two. I don’t know what it is. They don’t know either. But I think Magnus tries to impress him. It’s bizarre.”
Vincent rubbed the back of his neck. “Okay. But what does that have to do with me?”
Peter held his gaze.
“Everything,” he said. “Because they won’t see you as the sweet kid anymore. They’ll see you as the one who’s coming for their place. And the dinner?” His expression hardened. “The dinner is not about chess. It’s about power. Social power. And you, Vincent, must not step on the wrong toes. Especially not now, when everyone is watching you.”
The room went very quiet.
Vincent sat straighter, suddenly aware of the invitation’s weight in his hand.
He had played countless games. Fought tough tournaments. Beaten brilliant minds. But this felt like another game entirely.
He drew a breath, calm and composed in that particular Vincent way.
“Alright,” he said. “Tell me what I need to know.”
And Peter, relieved but still worried, began.