All I had left were my cigarette burns. As Fritzsch placed a black rook next to his king in the far right corner, I slipped my fingers into my sleeve to feel the uneven skin. They’d evolved from oozing blisters to scabs and now scars, ugly and a deep, vicious red. I was strangely grateful for them. These were scars that would never heal.

I didn’t expect the pain of my family’s death to go away, like my bruises. Anger and grief were intense and debilitating, warping everything beyond recognition. The prison that held my body was trivial by comparison. My true prison was the one that held my soul.

A clatter pierced the quiet morning. At once, I drew back. Fritzsch had a few captured pieces in his hands, and he dropped a second one. “Your move.”

“Yes, Herr Lagerführer,” I whispered, trying to prevent another reaction when he let a third piece hit the table.

Fritzsch and I both had most pieces in play, but I could already see my win. All that remained was the bait, a pawn he eagerly took. My trap had worked. I moved my queen and captured the pawn shielding his king.

“Checkmate.”

It took our audience a moment to realize why I’d won; when they did, they erupted into cheers or groans and settled whatever exorbitant bets they’d placed on our game.

My victory didn’t hold its usual satisfaction. It wasn’t playing in front of a crowd that bothered me—after all, I’d once dreamt of competing in championships. It was knowing that, whether I played against Fritzsch, another guard, or a prisoner selected as my opponent, whether we were alone or on display for the entire camp, chess had transformed into something I was forced to do. Nothing more. I was Fritzsch’s living, breathing game, one he’d keep playing until he got bored or he won. Whichever came first.

When Fritzsch produced a fresh cigarette, a young guard struck a match and offered it to him. “Forgive me for betting against you, Herr Lagerführer, but since you won a few days ago, I suspected she had learned her lesson.”

Fritzsch didn’t match the soldier’s grim smile; he regarded me as he always did—seeking my reaction.

Sour bile nearly rose to my throat, mimicking our last game; I focused on the chessboard until it had transformed into a black-and-white blur. Following his win that morning, Fritzsch had suddenly grabbed my dominant wrist, slammed my hand down, and pressed his pistol to it.

The barrel pinned me in place, fingers splayed across the board, soon to be joined by mangled flesh and rivulets of blood. I had played terribly; Fritzsch made concentration impossible, analyzing me, speaking to me, dropping so many pieces onto the board. Poor gameplay made for a dull game, its price my chess-playing hand.