Scavenger Hunt!

Dessert on the Terrace had mostly dissolved back into its natural state—small knots of conversation, people refilling drinks, the slow entropy of plates and chairs as the crowd drifted and settled. The clean-up, like most things here, seemed to handle itself. If there was still a faint outline of the roast in the air, it faded fast, replaced by the low background hum of a party not quite ready to admit it was afternoon.

Andy, finally back to an even breath after the last barrage, sat near the head of the table with Harper at his left and Nick Reynolds one chair down. Sam was still orbiting the tables, never sitting for long, always ready to call a play or upend the vibe on a whim.

It was Sam who, as always, manufactured the transition: she scanned the crowd once, saw that she’d have to speak over at least three conversations and a minor wrestling match between Laura Black and Mark Garret (now escalated to arm-wrestling and loud color commentary), and made a show of climbing—literally—onto her chair, glass in hand.

She raised it like she was swearing someone in. When the table didn’t go quiet fast enough, she brought the glass down on the wood with a sharp ping, and that did it.

“Listen up, degenerates,” Sam called, grinning so hard it was contagious, “We’ve reached the part of the day where I get to announce the real reason you’re all here. If any of you thought the roast was the main event, I appreciate your innocence, but the bachelor party proper starts now.” She let the silence breathe. “It’s time for the First Annual Great HH Scavenger Hunt.”

No one booed. No one even groaned. Andy watched the effect ripple down the line—Kevin McAllister perked up, Harper’s eyebrows flickered in genuine surprise, and even Felix, who had spent most of the past hour trying not to be noticed, brightened.

Sam continued: “We’re going teams of two. Some tasks require brawn, some brains, and at least one requires a suspicious lack of both. First team to finish the most tasks before whiskey tasting wins. There is a trophy. And a plaque. And possibly a parade, if we get drunk enough after dinner.”

Felix raised a hand, tentative. “What happens if there’s a tie?”

Sam’s eyes flicked to him. “In the event of a tie, the winner will be determined by single combat, rock-paper-scissors, or thumb war. Judges’ discretion.”

The table’s laugh rolled, and Sam, always in command, held up a sheet of paper. “Six tasks. I will read them only once, so pay attention and remember.” She scanned the group, then started.

“One: Get Mildred to admit she has a favorite guest. Not just that she likes someone, but that there’s a hierarchy. Nobody has ever managed this. There is a special, horrible trophy for the first who does.”

Andy caught a flicker of movement at the edge of the table—the guest-Mildred, not in uniform but still perfect, arms folded, a few steps behind Kevin Burgmeyer. The Mildred’s eyes went glassy for a moment, then settled into something perfectly neutral, and Andy could have sworn she was mentally re-shuffling an entire spreadsheet’s worth of deniability.

Sam continued. “Two: Find the one room in the hotel that’s never shown up on a map. It is there, it has a name on the door, someone in this family has been in it, but it was never seen before the last round. Photograph the door. I want the plaque, and a selfie, with the door in frame.”

Harper, next to Andy, mouthed, “Hell yes.”

Sam let her eyes drift down the page. “Three: Get Herman to tell a story from before the Hotel existed. Not one he’s told before. New material only, preferably with a date and a location. There’s a bonus if he uses the phrase ‘back in my day’ unironically.”

A small, self-satisfied noise came from Herman’s side of the table. He didn’t look up, but Andy saw the hint of a smile under the usual deadpan.

“Four: Retrieve a toy from the nest of pillows Samson Drei and Meatball have taken over in the Pavilion of Bonds, and bring it back here. You must do this without waking either of them, and you must not get help from a staff Mildred. If you wake a dog, or the toy gets destroyed in the process, you are disqualified from this task.”

Sam paused, a little grander this time. “For context, this used to be about taking something from Katherine’s painting without waking her, but since she’s off at the bachelorette, we’re going with the hardest-level security system. The toy, for those who haven’t seen it, is a plushie man in a red and black checkered suit, with its head loved into total unrecognizability. Herman, you know who I mean.”

Herman’s mouth curved, private. “He was not clever.”

Sam nodded. “There’s your hint.”

She moved to the next line. “Five: Track down the worst-named cocktail on the current menu and order two. You have to finish them, and the team who comes up with the most creative improvement on the recipe wins a side prize. If you can’t drink, find someone who will do it for you.”

Mark, down the table, gave a thumbs up and said, “That one’s already ours.”

“Last,” Sam said, letting the word dangle, “Bring back something of Andy’s that he doesn’t know is missing. I don’t care what it is—a pen, a watch, a fragment of his dignity—just something he doesn’t notice before the end. If you’re Andy, and the team, it has to be something of mine instead.” She locked eyes with Andy for just a second, a challenge and a dare all at once.

Andy deadpanned, “Is this because I made you wear that friendship bracelet for a whole week, that one time?”

Sam, without missing a beat, said, “No, but thanks for reminding me. It’s going on the trophy if you manage to win.” Then she raised her glass again, as if this was a courtroom and not a group of adults being conscripted into the world’s least dignified field day.

With the rules out, she began reading pairings.

“First team: Andy and Harper.”

Andy looked at Harper. She grinned, genuinely delighted. “I accept this pairing.”

Sam continued, “Second: Myself and Van.”

Van’s eyes widened, just slightly, but he nodded, accepting his fate.

“Third: Mark and Felix.”

There was a brief pause as both sized up whether this was a power team or a disaster. Mark gave a game-show host wink at Felix, who only looked more anxious.

“Fourth: Mildred and Kevin B.”

Kevin, who’d been sipping his coffee in peace, perked up at the sound. The Mildred behind him, no longer lurking, appeared to physically brace herself for what was coming.

“Fifth: Kevin McAllister and Laura Black.”

They both grinned at each other, in on a private joke already.

“Sixth: Herman and Matt Hawkins.”

Matt nodded gravely, then looked at Herman, as if hoping to see any reaction at all. Herman nodded, sage-like, and said, “We will be efficient.”

“Seventh: Nick and Robert.”

Robert blinked, looked at Nick, and shrugged. “Could be worse,” he said.

Nick replied, “Yeah, we could have gotten stuck with the two most competitive people in the building.” He pointed at Laura and Mark.

Sam grinned wider. She finished, “Last but not least: Adrien and Art.” She nodded toward the two, who, having sat next to each other for the whole of lunch, took this as the least surprising outcome.

“Every team gets a camera for task two,” Sam said, pulling a cheap Polaroid from a tote bag and tossing it to Harper, then working down the line. “And a smartwatch.” She tossed the first to Andy, then handed the next to Van, who caught it in one smooth motion.

“These track your progress. Courtesy of Arabella. She says they’re impossible to cheat, so don’t bother.”

Andy asked, “Does she ever explain why it matters to her?”

Harper said, “It’s the game that matters, not the result.” She was already strapping the smartwatch to her wrist, eyes lit up like she was a kid at a science fair.

By the time the last camera was handed off, the room was alive again. Mark and Felix had already moved to the periphery, conferring in low, urgent tones. Kevin and Mildred were moving a table clear of the buffet, then, with total seriousness, started setting up what looked like a command post—Mildred watched, more bemused than resistant, and a few other guests glanced over, clearly trying to figure out what they were building.

Sam gave one last note: “First one back gets to read the progress board. No racing, but whoever finishes most tasks gets the trophy. And no sabotages. Don’t be a Mark.”

Mark called back, “But if it works?”

Sam shot him finger-guns. “If it works, I’ll buy you a drink.”

Andy stood, nodded at Harper, and said, “Should we get started?”

Harper was already on her feet. “Let’s hunt.”

The crowd broke up instantly, eight pairs peeling off in eight different directions. For a brief, gorgeous second, the terrace was almost quiet. Then the sound came back, more alive than before—laughter, the clang of glasses, the noise of a hundred inside jokes echoing down the halls.

Andy watched as the teams scattered, and—just for a heartbeat—felt the old adrenaline come back. This was a game, yes, but like every game, it mattered because they’d all agreed to let it.

He caught Harper’s eye, and she grinned, already plotting.

“Ready?” she asked.

“Always,” Andy said, and meant it.

---

Andy and Harper peeled away from the Terrace crowd the instant Sam handed off the camera, neither looking back to see if anyone else had even stood up yet. Harper, long-legged and unbothered, matched Andy’s stride, but the pace he set had a low-key urgency that made it feel like they were on a clock, even though Sam had just finished telling everyone it wasn’t a race.

Harper waited until they were out of earshot before needling him. “You know, when they say it’s not a race, most people take that as permission to stroll.”

Andy grinned without slowing. “This is just my walk. Especially when I know where I’m going.”

She caught the sideways glance, let it hang a second. “Since when?”

Andy considered, then answered, “Today, specifically.”

Harper barked a real laugh, the kind that always sounded a little surprised at itself, then loped alongside, perfectly happy to let him pretend she hadn’t just called him out. “Fine,” she said, “but I’m logging our lead on the smartwatch as me doing you a favor. I expect full credit.”

“That’s not how favors work,” Andy said.

“It is when I’m keeping score,” Harper replied.

He let her have the last word and led them straight to the Main Lobby, cutting through the resort’s arteries with the ease of a local, not a guest. There were still stragglers from lunch—two of the Mark/Felix brawl judges, a couple of teamless observers—but Andy ignored them, beelining for the corridor that ran behind the front desk.

It was nothing. Just a hallway, lined with generic beach-resort art and nothing else, but at the far end, tucked into an alcove, was a plain white door. The placard read, Director’s Office.

Harper stopped, cocked her head, and asked, “How’d you know to come here?”

Andy deadpanned, “Claire and Erin visited this place last round. Arabella mentioned to Claire, in passing, that it had been moved here. It’s the only room with a plaque - the Sunroom and the Hall of Curiosities don’t have one. That’s all.”

Harper squinted. “You mean your cat-eared harem archivist found it, or you found it?”

Andy smiled. “We all have our sources.”

Harper paused, then said, “Do you think Claire’s owed a favor now?”

Andy considered, shrugged. “You’ll have to take it up with Claire. I’m just passing the information along.”

Harper shook her head, amused. “You’re terrifying,” she said, not unkindly.

She lined up the Polaroid, snapped the shot of the door with Andy in frame, then flipped it for the selfie mode and pressed her cheek to his. The camera flashed, and she inspected the photo as it developed, shaking it for effect. “Task two down before anyone else even makes it off the terrace. I almost feel bad for the rest of them.”

Andy said, “Almost?”

Harper grinned, “Okay, not at all. How many unmarked doors like this do you have a list for?”

Andy looked up, as if seriously considering. “You don’t want to know.”

She nodded, as if that was the only safe answer, and tucked the photo into her pocket.

They drifted up a flight of stairs, heading for the next target without even discussing it. Andy slowed as they neared the next corner, scanning for Service. It only took a second—there was a Mildred, this one in a pale blue uniform, restocking a linen cart and humming something that sounded like a cross between a pop jingle and a funeral march.

Andy didn’t bother with subterfuge. He walked up, stopped at a polite distance, and said, “Hey, Mildred. I have a question.”

She didn’t look up. “Yes, Master Cooper?”

He said, “Is JJ your favorite guest?”

The linen-folding stopped for a full second. Mildred’s hands hovered in midair, then resumed, perfectly smooth, like nothing had happened. Her face didn’t move, but after a long moment, she said, “The Contestant-spawn is a fascinating flesh-being.”

Harper’s eyes narrowed. She leaned in, eyes on the Mildred. “Is that a yes, then?”

Mildred resumed her folding. “It is a yes,” she said, as if each syllable cost her a coin.

Andy smiled, not gloating. “Thank you.”

Mildred nodded, but it was Harper who said, “That’s two in the bag. Want to go for a third before anyone realizes what we’re doing?”

Andy nodded, already casing the route in his head, then led Harper out through the west edge of the gardens, shortcutting the walk by three minutes and keeping them away from the higher-traffic guest corridors where the other teams might cross their path or catch a hint of how far ahead they’d gotten.

There was a shortcut through the Inner Gardens if you cut the corner just left of the garden shed, and Andy used it now, trusting Harper to keep pace even as the crushed granite path skidded into loose dust.

She said nothing, but he could hear the unspoken approval in the lengthening stride at his side.

They reached the Pavilion of Bonds with nobody else in sight. Inside, the Pavilion was empty except for the two dogs: Meatball and Samson Drei, a big golden retriever and a fluffy blue-and-white corgi, curled together in a nest of pillows so elaborate it looked engineered for maximum comfort and minimum disturbance. The dogs hadn’t noticed Andy and Harper yet, but the Pavilion wasn’t exactly built for stealth operations.

Andy paused at the threshold, not out of hesitation, but because he knew exactly how tricky this task was meant to be. The dogs, especially when sleeping, could sense a threat from a solid twenty feet. He’d seen Meatball snap awake at the sound of a fridge opening three rooms away, and Samson Drei was even worse, a light-sleeper with a hair-trigger bark that no amount of reassurance or petting could fully deactivate.

Andy considered it, then decided to cheat. He looked at Harper, who raised her eyebrows in silent query. “I have a Gift for this,” Andy whispered, then stepped into the Pavilion proper. He took a slow breath, held it, and then let it out in a short, measured pulse. It wasn’t that the Command Gift was subtle, but if you did it wrong, the dogs would just lose their minds and the entire Pavilion would wake up with a howl.

The trick was to aim for the gap between dream and waking, to let the idea slide in without making a ripple. “Sleep deeply for a couple minutes,” Andy murmured, directing it at both dogs, projecting the thought with the gentle weight of a hand on their backs. Both dogs shifted, one after the other, then burrowed into the pillows and let out the kind of synchronized sigh that meant they were gone, at least for now. Harper let out a low whistle.

“That’s three tasks,” she said. “You’re going to lap the field.” Andy shrugged, crossed the Pavilion in a straight line, and found the nest of pillows just as he remembered: tucked at the center, half-buried, was the plushie in the garish checkered suit, its head so obliterated by love that the original pattern was a matter of faith.

He picked it up, and looked over at Harper. “You want the photo, or should I?” She snapped the pic, catching Andy mid-smirk with the toy in hand, then looked to the side, where—unbeknownst to them until just now—a Mildred stood at the edge of the Pavilion, clipboard in hand, ready to confirm success or witness disaster.

Andy walked the plush over, handed it to the Mildred, who inspected it with a level of seriousness that implied she was grading a final exam. She nodded once, and made a mark on the sheet.

Harper asked, “Can we put it back, or does it have to go to Sam?” The Mildred considered, then said, “If the dogs are not disturbed, you may return it. They will not notice.” Andy gently resettled the plush in the nest, tucking it under Samson Drei’s chin. Neither dog moved. Harper took a picture for posterity.

Three for three, and it wasn’t even forty minutes in. They were about to leave when Andy, on instinct, walked to one of the shelves at the Pavilion’s edge, just under the display of badges and memorabilia from previous challenge seasons. Between a weathered yearbook and buried behind a stack of coasters, was a small, velvet dice bag, the kind that cost twenty bucks and was always on sale at the gaming store. Sam had owned exactly one of these, and Andy recognized it by the old hand-stitched patch on the side: a misshapen cartoon of a cat’s face, one eye winking, the other crossed out in a comical X. He picked up the bag, weighed it. Inside were handfuls of polyhedrals of every color known to man.

Andy palmed the bag, tucking it inside his shirt pocket. “That’s four,” he said, not even quietly.

Harper looked at him, half-amused and half-exasperated. “That’s the task for Sam’s thing? You just take a souvenir?”

Andy nodded. “She’ll never notice until tonight,” he said. “Guaranteed reaction.” Then, for good measure, he replaced the bag exactly where he’d found it. They exited the Pavilion, and Andy could hear the dogs settle deeper, if that was even possible, the plush toy restored to its place of honor.

“That’s four in the bag,” Harper said, strapping the camera back onto her wrist. “You know Sam stacked the deck for you, right?” Andy shrugged, a little embarrassed, a little proud. “She knows how to make a game look fair.” They cut back toward the main building, and as they walked, Andy checked the smartwatch. Barely forty-five minutes had passed, and their team’s bar was already a solid four tasks up. He considered, and for the first time, didn’t look delighted.

“Let’s walk for a bit,” he said, softer.

Harper caught the change in tone, but didn’t press. “Sure,” she said. They wandered the upper hallways, through a solarium full of lizards basking in the glass-walled sun, down a spiral staircase that smelled like citrus and wax.

Eventually, Harper said, “You alright?”

Andy said, “Yeah. There’s just… something I need to do before the day’s over. You’ll probably guess it before I say it out loud.”

Harper let it sit, then said, “You don’t owe me an explanation. But if you want to talk, I’ll listen.”

Andy smiled, warmer this time. “Thanks. I might take you up on that. But for now, I think we should slow down. Let the rest of the field catch up.”

Harper looked at him sidelong, then said, “You want cover. For what?”

Andy said, “I need to go to a certain tree before the writing period closes. I don’t want to make it a big thing. Would you mind running interference for me?”

Harper didn’t hesitate. “Done.”

The air beside her shimmered, a subtle pulse that was easy to miss if you didn’t know to look for it. Then, quietly, a second Andy resolved into view—same height, same shirt, same unbothered slouch. The illusion was flawless, unless you tried to touch it or asked it to recite the periodic table.

Harper eyed the doppelganger, nodded once, and said, “I’ll parade him around the lobby for a while. Anyone who tries to talk to him will be exactly the kind of person who doesn’t care that he doesn’t talk back.”

Andy said, “That’s exactly right.”

He slipped away, not running but not walking slow, either, and was gone before Harper could think of another good joke. She watched the spot where he’d vanished, then turned to the illusion and said, “How about a drink?”

The Andy illusion nodded, silent and obedient, and Harper started walking the halls at half-pace, letting the rest of the teams catch a glimpse of her with her partner, their score still at the top of the watch leaderboard.

She didn’t push for any more tasks. She didn’t even bother trying to beat the pace. Instead, she let the other teams find their own rhythm, and if anyone wondered why her Andy never said anything, or why she didn’t seem to care about winning anymore, they’d have to take it up with the real one—when he decided to come back.

For now, she was content to let the world think what it wanted.

---

The lunch crowd on the terrace fragmented slowly, like a school of fish breaking and reforming as it drifted through patchier waters. It left Art and Adrien sitting at their end of the table, the other voices dimming to a background drone, the two of them ringed with that blank, faintly charged silence people sometimes bring to a hospital waiting room or a post-bomb interview.

Kevin Burgmeyer had commandeered a table alongside with the guest Mildred, and a small platoon of staff-Mildreds were sent back and forth, like messengers or agents. The scene was a distant part of the view; nobody on this side was going to interrupt them, not even the most determined guest. For a few minutes, neither man tried to speak. Art had seen Adrien die once, or at least had believed he’d seen it, and he wasn’t ready to risk the reality by poking at it too hard. Adrien, for his part, radiated the stilled composure of a man who’s already recited the script of this moment to himself a hundred times, but had never quite expected to read it with another actor in the room.

Art, eventually, was the one who gave in to curiosity—he always had been. “I truly thought you were gone,” he said, voice pitched for privacy, none of the party in it. “Every account, every scrap I could find—no one ever saw you after that day. It was as if you’d never existed at all.”

Adrien didn’t blink. “That was the intention.” He didn’t look away from the middle distance where his hands were folded, precise and unmoving. “I had been Myrddin ap Ambrosius, and Ambrosius ap Emrys before that, for longer still. I was becoming too visible.” He let the name settle between them. “I was supposed to advise you. I ended up closer to you than I intended. You remember. There were parts of the story no one wrote down, and others no one believed worth remembering.” The edge of his mouth flicked upward, gone before it landed. “If you expected a wizard’s robe and a ring of lightning by now, I’m afraid you remember I was a disappointment even then.”

“I didn’t expect a wizard at all,” Art said, careful. “I expected an advisor who would not outlast the king.” He watched Adrien, and there was no accusation in it, only a soft, wary wonder.

Adrien let that pass, then said, “Histories disagree.” He drummed two fingers on the table, one beat, then stopped himself. “And you’re one to talk, King Arthur, supposed to be dead, or sleeping on Avalon right now.”

Art inclined his head, just once. “I’m not fond of either end, to be fair.”

Adrien’s shrug was as dry as the terrace wind. “I was never the one holding the pen. I’m sorry for what they did to you and the ladies. Not that they did much better with me. If they needed a shadowy man with an agenda, or a walking reminder that nothing in the world was permanent, they could ascribe it to Myrddin and move on.” He rolled the syllables in a way that made it clear the name meant almost nothing to him now. “By the time anyone bothered to write it down, I’d stopped answering to the name altogether.”

Art let the line rest, then asked, “Why leave?”

Adrien’s hands folded and unfolded once, a small break in the stillness. “I have always left. If you stay to watch how it ends, you let it shape you.” He didn’t embellish. “I never learned to watch it happen.”

“And afterward?”

“Every story I found suggested you passed away,” Adrien said. “I believed it myself, right up until an hour ago.”

Art considered that for a moment. “I’m glad,” he said, “that I was wrong.”

Adrien nodded, slow. “So am I.”

The terrace noise grew briefly louder, Sam’s voice above the rest, rallying the group for the scavenger hunt; Adrien and Art both ignored it, as if the rest of the world was a radio tuned to another country’s weather report.

They didn’t rush to fill the air. Neither had the temperament for small talk, and a thousand years of backlog made for a logjam even if they’d tried. After a minute, Art asked, “What do you go by now?”

“Adrien Moore,” he said, as if it was the first thing he’d said today that actually felt like it fit. “It works.”

Art turned the syllables over, then tried them aloud. “Adrien Moore.” He smiled, real and fleeting. “That’s good. It suits you.”

“It was my choice,” Adrien said. He meant it as an answer to a larger question, and Art understood that.

They sat, together but alone, until the crowd noise thinned enough that conversation felt possible again. Art turned the task list over in his hand without looking at it. “We have options,” he said.

Adrien glanced at the sheet once. “We do.”

A beat passed.

“There’s a deity twenty yards away,” he said.

Art didn’t look at the list. “I noticed.”

Adrien glanced at him sidelong. “Seems a waste not to ask him something.”

“It does,” Art said, and stood. He glanced at Adrien, then looked away. “You ready?”

“I’ve been waiting for a while,” Adrien said, his voice almost gentle now.

Art nodded, once, then led the way off the terrace, both men navigating the space with the innate courtesy of people who’ve spent their whole lives avoiding making a scene. They didn’t walk in lockstep, but the old rhythm was nearly perfect: Art a fraction ahead, scanning, Adrien a half step behind, already looking past the obvious places for a story to hide.

They left the noise of the wedding party behind them as they crossed the garden and angled toward the shaded tables where the earlier whiskey tasting had been set up. The path between them was empty but for the occasional staff Mildred transporting empty trays with the eerie grace of a sleepwalker. None of them paid the pair much mind; the air of “on a mission” tended to clear a path.

Art found the table first. Herman was seated, eyes closed, glass balanced on two fingers. He looked like he might be meditating or calculating the odds of something in his head. Matt Hawkins was with him, a notebook out and a pen moving in slow, absent loops. Both looked up as the pair approached.

“Art,” said Matt, then caught himself, “Artorius, and…” He checked the context, then gave Adrien a tiny, knowing smile. “Mr. Moore. Good to see you.”

“Likewise,” Adrien said. “You’re ahead of us, I take it?”

Matt Hawkins shrugged. “Not for long. Herman’s still searching for a story he hasn’t told a hundred times already.”

Herman didn’t open his eyes. “Stories are like seeds. If you dig them up too soon, you don’t get anything worth hearing.” He lifted the glass, inspected the men, and nodded. “You want to know what happened before the Hotel.”

Artorius sat, not waiting for invitation. “Yes.”

Adrien, after a moment, did the same.

Herman thought for a moment, then said, “There was no before. Not really. But there was a time before the First Gate. The Deep hadn’t decided if it was a single thing or infinite. It wore new shapes the way men try on coats in a shop, then threw them off when they didn’t fit. There wasn’t a word for hunger yet, but there was still hunger.”

Matt, notebook poised, said, “So what changed?”

Herman smiled, thin. “The Gate wasn’t made. It was torn. Something wanted out badly enough that it used up its own self to pull open a seam. I came through already knowing her, which is odd, because there was no already, but that’s how it felt. Like I was born late to the party and had to run to catch up.”

Art asked, “Who’s ‘her’?”

“Doesn’t matter,” said Herman. “She changed names every few cycles, and sometimes she forgot herself. Once it was a thing with no name at all, just teeth and hunger and service.” He held up a hand. “Before you ask, yes, I’ve met her as Mildred, too.”

There was a silence, not long but deliberate.

Adrien watched Herman with a careful patience. “So what was it—a war, a game, a… test?”

Herman shrugged. “It was always all three. Sometimes gods and eldritch things tried to kill each other, sometimes they got drunk and told each other stories. Sometimes they just did whatever it took to not get bored. It went on for ages. The only thing that stayed the same was the door, and that somebody always had to hold it.”

Matt Hawkins, pen still, said, “But who won?”

Herman grinned, baring a couple teeth. “If you’re asking, you already know it’s not about winning. If there was a win condition, someone would have thrown it already.”

Art, quiet, said, “What do you think was the point?”

Herman thought. “I think it was to see what would happen at the intersection.” He tossed back the rest of his glass and set it down. “Universes, stars, planets, things that eat all of the above. Kept stable by the interplay between gods and their opposites. All the way down to the smallest things. Sometimes you get a King. Sometimes you get a wizard who won’t admit he is one. Sometimes you get a dog.”

He said it without irony. Neither Adrien nor Artorius argued.

Herman turned the empty glass slowly on the table. “The Hotel is the same logic. Both sides needed a place where the seam could stay open just wide enough to breathe through without tearing. A contained thing. A stage.” He paused. “The hunger doesn’t want to come through anymore. It learned that coming through costs too much. What it wants now is to be fed from a distance. And what feeds it is attention—the real kind. The kind that only happens when mortals are put somewhere they can’t pretend, and everything they feel becomes enormous.” He set the glass down. “The show was the compromise. The fuel is every person inside it who means what they do.”

Herman let that land. For a long moment, no one spoke. Matt Hawkins stared at his notepad as if the lines he’d scribbled had begun to swim, his usual dry composure replaced by the wide-eyed stillness of a man who’d just glimpsed the bottom of the sea. Artorius sat unmoving, one hand resting on the table as though testing its solidity. Adrien had gone very still, his gaze fixed on some middle distance where cosmic doors and hungers turned slowly, vast and undeniable.

Herman stood, stretching his back with a soft sigh. He made a small, almost lazy gesture, and a Mildred glided forward from the dappled shadows near the hedges, bearing a tray with three fresh glasses. He didn’t look at her. He was used to this—the silence that fell when people understood, even for a second, the scale of what they’d asked for.

“If you’re satisfied,” Herman said, his voice gentle now, almost consoling, “the hunt says you can mark the task complete.”

After a long moment, Matt finally blinked, shook his head as if clearing water from his ears, and ticked the box on his sheet with a hand that was only slightly unsteady. “We’ll… we’ll call it a win,” he managed, his voice hushed.

He looked at Artorius, then Adrien, then back at Herman, his expression still dazed. “You two… want a drink before you move on?” he offered, gesturing vaguely at the glasses the Mildred had brought.

Artorius considered the offer, his gaze distant, as if still seeing the infinite Deep Herman had described. He finally shook his head, a slow, deliberate motion. “We should let the others have a chance at the board,” he said, his voice low and thoughtful.

Adrien, looking at the sky, said, “Agreed.”

---

Sam led the way up to the Master’s Suite, walking with the kind of no-nonsense authority that made it impossible for anyone to imagine she didn’t belong there. Van trailed a step behind, surveying the hallway, the doors, the perpetual hush that seemed to follow Sam wherever she went.

She paused at the threshold and fished a keycard from her pocket. “Watch this,” she said, and a moment later the lock blinked open. No theatrics, no security protocol, just a quiet invitation to step inside.

Van hesitated, half a foot in the air, and asked, “Does this count as breaking and entering, or do you have special privileges?”

Sam didn’t look back. “It’s not breaking if you have a key. Benefits of being Harem Queen, apparently. Also, I’m pretty sure Andy would let us borrow the whole place if we asked nicely. But then it would be a whole thing—‘oh, do you need a snack, can I get you a towel, do you want to use the hot tub, what about the TV, let me show you how it works.’” She made a face. “It’s better to just take what you need.”

Van stepped in, slow, and let the room swallow him. The suite was… excessive, but in a way he’d almost gotten used to: too much space, too many windows, a minibar that seemed to refill itself when you blinked, a king-sized bed so wide you could lose a whole family of small dogs in it and never notice. It was so precisely Andy’s taste that it took Van a moment to even figure out what was weird about it, aside from the fact that he’d never been this far into the building without a chaperone.

Sam beelined for Andy’s bedroom, and there, she headed to a closet that looked like it could double as a panic room. She flicked the light on, scanned the racks, and—without hesitation—reached into the very back, yanking free a linen Hawaiian shirt patterned with muted palm leaves and a couple faded hibiscus flowers. It looked well-worn, but clean, and Van couldn’t figure out what made it special enough to risk the challenge on.

He pointed. “Out of all the shirts, why that one?”

Sam didn’t even glance at him. She shook the shirt once, folded it in crisp thirds, and said, “This is what Andy was wearing on our first day here, when Arabella summoned us. Day One, before any of us had any clue what was about to happen.” She held it to her chest for a beat, like she was checking it for size. “He kept it, but never put it on again. I don’t think he even remembers it’s here.”

She slid it into her backpack, zipped it, and—almost to herself—added, “Marcie said in her review that Andy looked best in this one. I never thought it myself, but, you know. Sentiment.”

Van let that hang, then found his attention pulled to the rest of the room. It was impossible not to compare: the way Andy’s suite stayed fixed in time, like a snapshot that never faded, versus the way Van’s own changed shape depending on who was in it with him. He said, not quite sure if it was a flex or a confession, “My place does something like this, except it always resets to whatever theme fits the woman I’m on bond assignment with. Sometimes it’s a parody of a romantic date, sometimes it’s a woman’s first apartment, sometimes it’s the house she wishes she would have. Kind of freaked me out the first time.”

Sam pivoted on her heel, eyeing him. “Bond assignment? That’s what you call it?”

Van grimaced. “Not my words. Verena is obsessed with formalizing everything. We even have activity assignments during the day.”

Sam grinned, wolfish. “You know, you can just call it a date night. Or, hell, just call it a night. Nobody’s going to mark you down for lack of jargon.”

He shrugged, a little defensive, but not in a way that made him angry. “It doesn’t feel right.”

Sam checked her watch, the easy confidence on her face freezing solid. “That’s one for us,” she said, her voice losing its playful edge. She tapped the screen. “Andy and Harper are already at four.” She looked up at Van, a flicker of genuine irritation in her eyes before she schooled it into something more strategic. “Okay. We need to move. You want to go for a second before they lap us?”

Van let out a low whistle, his grin turning wry. “Guess we better pick up the pace before they actually do start time traveling.”

Sam nodded, walking toward the door. “Come on, I want to get the shot of the hidden room before Mark gets there and tries to eat it or something.”

They headed out together, Sam holding the door open with a flourish, Van following in her slipstream. The whole way down the hall, the argument continued—Sam insisting on one more sneaky win, Van hedging that he’d rather not be the reason the rules got rewritten, but never quite meaning it enough to actually stop her.

They were still bickering, side by side, when they hit the next checkpoint. It sounded, to anyone in earshot, like the best kind of trouble.

---

Sam called them back together with nothing but the sound of her own voice—sharp, warm, a little hoarse from laughing at her own jokes for the last hour. It worked; the bachelor party group filtered in across the terrace, reassembling in the same broad scatter of tables where they’d started the day. The sun had started its long slide, painting the garden glass with orange and gold. It caught on the drinks, the hair, the horns and wings and whatever else people had grown or borrowed for the event, and made it all look even more deliberate, if that was possible.

Andy slipped back to the table with Harper in tow, both moving with the easy, unhurried step of people who’d never actually run anywhere, not even as kids. They sat—Andy dropping into the seat with a contented thump, Harper perching like she’d been waiting for the curtain call all along. The effect was one of total nonchalance, which was impressive, given that the two of them had apparently broken most of the scavenger hunt by four and then vanished for an hour.

The rest drifted in at their own pace. Laura Black, wings folded tight against her back, made a show of sitting on a chair small and then grinning at Mark, who promptly shrugged. Mark took up the space of two men and sat with the back of his chair tipped up on two legs, easy, amused. Felix found a spot between Nick and Van, both of whom seemed genuinely relieved to be sitting again. Kevin McAllister and Burgmeyer clustered near the front, along with guest Mildred—who had ditched her black for a dress so subtly blue it almost matched the sky.

There was a lull, a pause, as everyone realized there was nothing else scheduled until Sam decided there was. The lull did not last. Sam stepped up on the bench, clipboard in hand, and said, “Alright, you beautiful idiots, let’s put the hunt to rest before someone starts cheating by drinking the whiskey prize in advance.” She pulled out a clipboard and scanned it with the eye of a surgeon preparing for her next patient.

Sam gave the table a moment to finish its jokes, then checked her clipboard with theatrical flourish and announced, “Alright, let’s see who the nerds and overachievers really are.” She paused just long enough for someone—Mark, obviously—to say, “That’s not how you’re supposed to start a ceremony,” but she ignored him and read off the results.

“In first place, with four tasks completed, the ‘Command Team’ of Kevin Burgmeyer and Mildred—” She let the crowd react, which was more than she expected, a full, ribald round of groans and applause, several people calling out “rigged” in unison. “—but, but—tied for first, and coming up out of absolutely nowhere, Andy and Harper! Four points, logged within the first forty minutes, and also, not to brag, but one of those tasks was ‘get Mildred to admit a favorite guest,’ which the Service team has a historical zero percent success rate on.”

Andy shrugged, palms up, as if he was surprised to be standing there at all. Harper, with her best “of course we did” face, flexed the smartwatch and waggled the Polaroids for evidence. “We peaked early and then coasted,” Andy deadpanned. “Should’ve kept pushing.”

Harper nodded. “I did try to get him to run another lap, but we figured we’d let the field have a chance.” She winked at Kevin B, who, with arms folded and smile even wider, just nodded and said, “Appreciated. But in our defense, we built a command post.”

“That’s true,” Sam allowed. “Everyone saw it. It was like watching you two in your natural habitat: one issuing orders, the other organizing supplies. I have no idea if this is what Arabella meant by ‘healthy competition,’ but it was beautiful. Also, the log shows you literally didn’t leave your spot for forty-five minutes, so either you finished the tasks by remote or you’re not logging your bathroom breaks.”

Kevin held his ground. “There was nothing in the rules about centralizing operations. In fact, I’d argue it was the most efficient way to maximize time-on-task.”

At the same time, Mildred (the guest, not staff) muttered, just loud enough for the table, “He’s insufferable when he’s right.” It was impossible to tell if she was smiling or grimacing.

Sam went down the list, tapping the clipboard with her pen. “Second place is a three-way tie: Mark and Felix, myself and Van, and Kevin McAllister with Laura Black. Three each, and if Andy, Harper, Kevin and Mildred didn’t pull ahead, I thought we’d have to settle it with a mud wrestling contest.”

Mark, without missing a beat, said, “Why wasn’t that one of the tasks?” and Van, to his right, managed a real laugh, albeit a quick, stifled one.

Sam pointed with her glass. “Next time, you get to pick the tasks, big guy. I just want you to be prepared for the part where you have to actually get mud on your face.”

Felix added, “If Mark gets his way, it’s just going to be more wrestling and less actual scavenger.”

Laura Black arched an eyebrow, then aimed it at Mark. “You know you’re not the only super-strong person in this company, right?” Mark shrugged, unbothered, and said, “My true calling is in the finals.”

At the far end of the table, Kevin McAllister—who was now halfway through his drink—leaned over to Laura and murmured, “Next round, we’re taking it. I’ll even let you arm wrestle for the first move.”

Laura just smirked. “I plan to.”

Sam, always in control, moved on. “Two tasks each for Nick and Robert, and for Herman and Matt Hawkins.” She held the beat. “How did you two manage to double up on Adrien and Artorius? I thought you were just people-watching and sipping drinks the whole afternoon.”

Matt looked up from the notepad he’d been doodling on for the last twenty minutes and said, “I just counted whatever Herman was talking about as a story, and I was right there when he told his story to Adrien and K—Art, so it seemed only fair.” He grinned, but there was a glint of wildness in his eyes.

Herman, not one to elaborate when the work spoke for itself, nodded once and said, “We were efficient.” There was a note of satisfaction in it.

Sam, who had anticipated this logic, rolled her eyes and said, “I bet Kevin B is proud of the logic here. I know I am.”

Kevin B, who may or may not have been taking notes for later, simply said, “It’s sound logic, but I’d have used a spreadsheet.”

She didn’t let the table dwell on it. “Nick and Robert, you want to explain how you managed to take so many photos of doors that the algorithm crashed?”

Nick, who looked equal parts sheepish and proud, said, “The task said to find a room that never showed up before. We didn’t know what that meant, so we just took a photo of every door with a plaque or even a name on it. There were thirty-six.” He glanced at Robert, who added, “We only realized after the fact that the Director’s Office was the one you meant. But we also got the Sunroom, the Game Room, and a storage closet, which I think should count for something.”

Sam grinned, “It counts for excessive effort. And I admire it.” She scrolled down, finger flying. “And why is your hair still wet, Robert?”

Nick laughed before Robert could answer. “The clue for Andy’s missing-item challenge led us to the pool, where there was a waterproof container at the bottom. Only way to get it out was to dive for it.” He looked at Robert. “He did the honors. I just handed him a towel.”

Robert added, “I left my clothes at the edge, so only my hair got wet. It seemed fairer than showing up here in nothing but a swimsuit.”

A few people in the group whistled or applauded; Felix, whose shirtlessness was now a default, gave him a solemn nod.

Sam let it ride. “So what was in the container?”

Robert didn’t say it, but Nick did. “Purple silk pajamas.”

Sam didn’t miss a beat: “Neither of you wants to display the pajamas for the group?”

Both men shook their heads. “Thought so,” Sam said. “You’re safe.”

Sam held up a hand to keep the momentum. “Last, and only technically last, are Adrien and Art with one point, which was the same story that Matt and Herman logged, but none since. Explanation?”

Art gave a small, self-effacing shrug. “We went to the bar to search for the worst-named cocktail. Found it. Then stayed. Lost track of time.”

Sam arched an eyebrow. “So you’re admitting to having given up?”

Adrien, who’d spent most of the time at the table sipping espresso, smiled and said, “Given up implies effort in the first place. We made an executive decision to focus on quality, not quantity.”

There was a ripple of agreement through the table; Mark called out, “I respect that.”

Sam, unable to stop herself, said, “For those curious, the cocktail is called the Pink Staff Infection. Art, you want to walk us through the experience?”

Art, with a straight face, said, “It’s gin, grapefruit liqueur, something that looks like Pepto Bismol, and a rim of blue coconut sugar. The garnish is a candied cherry with a little umbrella that droops. You are required to say the name out loud when you order it.”

Laura Black made a face. “That’s… something.”

Art smiled. “It tastes like the death of ambition, with a finish of dentist’s office. It’s the first time I’ve ever had a drink that actually made me want to do penance after.” He paused. “I’d recommend it to nobody.”

Sam shook her head. “We’ll get a round at dinner. For science.”

Sam set her clipboard down, clapping her hands once. “Alright, now for the important part. Since we have a tie at the top, I’m supposed to call for a tiebreaker.” She looked at Andy, then at Kevin and Mildred. “Anyone feel like single combat, or can I just declare you all winners?”

Andy, who’d spent the last ten minutes letting the attention fall anywhere but on him, shook his head. “Give it to them,” he said, flicking his hand at Kevin and Mildred. “Anyone who builds a command post for a scavenger hunt deserves the hardware.” He said it without a trace of sarcasm.

Harper didn’t disagree. “I’d hate to see what happens if Kevin loses, anyway.”

The applause was loud and immediate. Kevin Burgmeyer accepted the cheap plastic trophy with a bow, then passed it to Mildred, who regarded it as if she were being handed a ticking bomb. She held it very delicately, and for a moment, Andy thought she might actually cry. Then she blinked twice, made the faintest gesture of thanks, and set it down in the exact center of the table.

Sam, as promised, called Mildred up for a micro-ceremony. She reached into her bag and produced a fresh-printed Service badge. She held it up and read: “‘Mildred—Service,’ and, as of today, ’… has a favorite guest, after all.’ Congratulations.” She pinned it, very carefully, to the lapel of Mildred’s blue dress.

Mildred looked at it. Then looked at Sam. Then looked at the table. For a long second, she didn’t say anything at all—her expression was caught between astonished, terrified, and something eldritch that Andy could only guess at. Nobody at the table pushed her to speak, but Sam handed her a glass of whiskey anyway.

“It’s not the best we have,” Sam said, “but the good stuff is for the real ceremony. For now, cheers.” She lifted her own glass, and everyone else followed suit.

Mildred sipped, just once. It was the smallest motion, but it seemed to settle something in the air.

Sam finished the ceremony with a flourish. “Officially: hunt closed. Trophy awarded. All of you can return to pretending you’re here for the drinks and not the chance to be first at something. Dinner in the Banquet Hall in thirty minutes—nobody’s allowed to die or get into a real fight until after the salad course.”

She hopped off the bench, and placed the clipboard on it. The glass dome above caught the sound, amplified it, and sent it echoing down into the gardens. Someone started to sing, another raised a toast, and within seconds, the day’s competition had been replaced by a clamor of voices that had nothing to do with points or prizes, and everything to do with the rare, perfect clarity of a moment where everyone at the table belonged.

Andy let himself enjoy it, just a little.

He turned to Harper and said, “Not bad for a day’s work.”

She clinked his glass. “Not bad at all.”

And if, as they headed toward the Banquet Hall, Andy caught a glimpse of the updated Service badge glinting on Mildred’s collar, or noticed the way she was still staring at it in disbelief, he didn’t mention it. Some victories, he figured, were best left unspoken.

Dinner, after all, was just getting started.