By Charles M. Sumid Copyright 2025 Written 2020

Ten PM clock-in.

Martinez from second shift briefs him:
“Nothing. Loading dock sensor’s acting up again.
Oh, and happy birthday.”

He doesn’t correct her.

His birthday was yesterday,
but overnight workers exist in temporal limbo—
when your shift spans two dates, which one counts?

First rounds: checking doors Martinez already checked,
because trust but verify.

Like chess, like Petrov’s Defense—
repeat the obvious moves until position shows opportunity.

Midnight.

He logs into ChessMaster Elite,
username GambitGuard_224.
Rating: 2347.

Enough to make him International Master
if he played in person,
if he paid federation fees,
if he cared about titles.

Three games running:
a Sicilian against someone in Mumbai,
an endgame with a professor in São Paulo,
and the one that counts—KasparovFan_2020,
who’s been hunting him for six months,
certain he’s cheating since security guards don’t play like this.

2:47 AM.

The monitors glow:
parking garage (empty),
lobby (one moth circling),
stairwell seven (flickering bulb he reported last week).

His phone props against monitor four,
the game against KasparovFan_2020 entering its endgame.

Bishop to e6.

He sees it coming five moves before the Russian executes,
the same way he spots the new janitor testing doors
that shouldn’t interest janitors.

Both require patience.
Both reward pattern recognition.

In chess, they call it prophylaxis:
preventing threats before they materialize.

In security, they call it Wednesday night.

Monitor twelve: a couple argues in the lot.

He watches their body language shift
from confrontation to reconciliation,
notes the de-escalation in his log.

On-screen, KasparovFan_2020 sacrifices a rook.
Desperate.

The kind of move amateurs think is clever.

He castles queenside, the king tucked safe behind pawns.

Protection is what he knows:
the building sleeps since he doesn’t,
his king survives since he sees the threats coming.

Check in three.
Mate in five.

KasparovFan_2020 resigns without comment,
still believing he lost to software,
not to a man who protects things for a living.

Dawn leaks through the lobby glass.

First shift arrives, their faces fresh with coffee and purpose.

He logs off ChessMaster,
logs final rounds,
passes the desk to Kohonen, who asks “Quiet night?”

“Quiet night,” he confirms,
though he’s won three games,
prevented two break-in attempts—nuisances, really,
part of the job—
and played an endgame that would’ve impressed
stronger players than KasparovFan_2020.

His real name appears nowhere—
not on the trophies he never sought,
not on the grandmaster certificate he’ll never claim,
just on the check they’ll cut Friday
for keeping watch while the city dreams.