You make a move on the Chessboard, and each turn ripples, ever-cascading effects endlessly multiplying like the flap of a butterfly's wings. You moved their piece before capture, bathed it in Black, and White remembers.
You don't know how they got one of your handkerchiefs. You don't know any of the evidence carefully constructed to point to your guilt. You don't know any of it, not yet. Only the words whispered into your ear as you pass through the parlour, the place where you can both pretend you're nothing more than two gentlemen of no notable profession, that you're not on opposing ideological poles. It's time to pack a bag and run--before the tigers hear what 'you' did.
You do not run. No one will have that power over you--to turn your back to that scared, helpless thing whose heart thunders in his chest, whimpering like a child waiting out a storm. You do not run, but you also do not tarry.
You need to make a plan, a way to avoid razored claws and snapping jaws. You need a way to exonerate yourself. You need to find who's pulling these strings, to yank them out of their hands and wrap them around their necks. For now you only have one plan: stay alive.
You don your hat and head out into the night.