The old man and PK began the game.
It had been a long time since PK last played chess—but strategy was etched into him. Patterns, probabilities, sacrifices, foresight—his mind adapted instantly. What others learned through years of practice, PK reconstructed through instinct and intelligence.
The opening was calm.
The middle game tightened.
The room slowly grew silent.
The old man played with confidence, almost lazily, as if this board belonged to him.
PK, on the other hand, played without emotion.
Then—
one decisive move.
Queen to King. Checkmate.
PK stood up immediately, as if the game meant nothing more than killing time.
The old man froze.
For the first time in years, disbelief crossed his face.
He slowly stood, pulled out a chequebook, wrote a number without hesitation, and placed it on the table.
One crore.
Then he sat back down, calmly arranging the pieces again, waiting—as if nothing unusual had happened.
This wasn't just chess.
It was a bet.
Every chess match here carried a default stake of one crore. The loser paid immediately. The audience was also allowed to place side bets on the players.
And this—this was the first time the old man had lost.
He looked up at PK and asked quietly,
"Care for another game?"
This time, the room exploded with interest.
People abandoned the betting tables. Powerful figures gathered around the chess area. Whispers spread fast.
The old man had sat on that chair for years.
He had never lost.
Everyone assumed PK was a fool—some random youngster who got lucky once.
So the bets poured in.
Crores flowed effortlessly—
all on the old man.
Even Selene placed her bet on him, convinced this round would end differently.
Only one person bet on PK.
Eve.
She quietly placed 25 lakhs on PK.
She smiled beneath her mask, wishing she had her phone. If only she could take a photo—PK, in that suit, focused and calm—and send it to the twins. They would never forgive her for missing this moment.
The second game began.
PK didn't hesitate. He sat down as if nothing was at stake—even though he already had a cheque in his pocket. Win or lose, he was already ahead.
This time, both players were serious.
No casual moves.
No arrogance.
Just silence, calculation, and pressure.
The old man leaned forward, sweat forming for the first time anyone could remember.
PK remained composed.
His eyes were sharp. His posture steady. His presence… overwhelming.
Eve felt her breath slow as she watched him.
When PK was serious, he looked different—commanding, dangerous, magnetic.
Her face warmed slightly.
What am I thinking? she scolded herself.
He's my nieces' boyfriend.
She forced the thought away—but her eyes refused to leave him.
Because in that moment, it was clear to everyone watching:
This wasn't a boy challenging a legend.
This was a predator, calmly walking into a territory he already owned.