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Ethan walked out of Sutton's office, pulled out his phone, and called Bumblebee.
He'd left the yellow Transformer parked discreetly near Hargrove's residence that morning, with strict instructions to remain inconspicuous. Inconspicuous was, in fairness, not Bumblebee's strong suit, but the protocols held. The Transformer had spent the day in his sports car form in a quiet corner of the residential block, drawing only a moderate amount of pedestrian attention.
Now, Ethan didn't bother being subtle.
"Pull up to the main gate of Hartwell University. Now."
A confident, slightly excited acknowledgment chime came back through the watch.
By the time Ethan walked out the front doors of the Physics Building and reached the main gate, a yellow streak was already drifting around the corner toward him. The sports car came to a precise halt at the curb. The driver's door swung open.
A small crowd of students who had been milling around the campus gates after their afternoon classes turned, in unison, toward the sound. Several of them recognized the car. Several of them recognized the man who slid into the driver's seat. The crowd's collective volume dropped to a hush, then climbed back up into excited murmuring.
Bumblebee's engine purred, then growled, then peeled away from the curb in a controlled burst of acceleration that left a thin cloud of warm tire smoke behind on the asphalt.
The Hartwell students watched the yellow car vanish into the evening traffic.
Several phones came out.
The day's viral content was, evidently, far from finished.
-----
The address Sutton had given Ethan led to a narrow side street in one of the older quarters of the capital, three or four blocks off the main thoroughfares. The buildings were low and weathered, with the sloping rooftops and gray brickwork of a district that had survived several waves of urban redevelopment by virtue of being unfashionable enough to ignore.
The restaurant Hargrove had selected sat midway down the block.
Ethan stopped at the curb and stared at it.
The building was small. The windows were narrow. The exterior was so plain that an unobservant pedestrian could walk past it three times without registering its existence. There was no signboard. No menu posted at the door. No advertising of any kind. The only indication that the establishment was a restaurant at all was the faint smell of cooking that drifted out through a half-open door.
And yet, despite the unprepossessing exterior, the place was packed.
Through the narrow front windows, Ethan could see that every visible table in the front dining room was occupied. The volume of conversation pouring out of the half-open door was the warm, rolling buzz of a restaurant operating well past its comfortable capacity. Glasses clinked. Laughter rolled. Someone in a back room was loudly toasting someone else.
It was, by the texture of the noise alone, a busy and beloved establishment.
Ethan walked in.
A waiter spotted him. Young man, late twenties, sharp uniform. He gave Ethan a small bow.
"Sir. Welcome. Do you have a reservation?"
Ethan gave him the room number Sutton had written on the slip of paper.
The waiter's expression shifted.
It was a brief, almost imperceptible shift, the kind that staff at very high-end establishments produced when guests pronounced certain magic words. Ethan caught it. The waiter's previous polite formality became respectful formality.
"Sir. Please, this way."
-----
The waiter led him through the front dining room, past the kitchen, and through a small archway at the back of the establishment.
What lay on the other side of the archway brought Ethan to a complete halt.
The bustling restaurant front had given way, in the space of three steps, to an entirely different environment. A walled inner courtyard. Open to the air, except, Ethan looked up, and realized after a moment that it wasn't open to the air. A high, perfectly transparent material formed an invisible ceiling several stories above, sealing the courtyard from the outside weather while preserving the visual impression of openness.
And inside the courtyard: a small, lush garden.
The temperature was several degrees warmer than the front of the restaurant. Subtropical foliage filled the space: broad-leaf plants, flowering vines, a single small tree with deep green fronds, all arranged with the care of years of tending. A narrow stone path wound between the plantings, leading to a series of doorways set into the inner walls of the courtyard.
In late winter, with temperatures outside still hovering below freezing, the inner courtyard was a small, perfect botanical preserve.
Ethan stared.
The waiter, beside him, smiled with the practiced patience of a man who'd seen this reaction many times.
"Sir. The inner courtyard. Built for the use of distinguished guests who require privacy for business and other discussions."
"The transparent canopy above us is a structural feature. It allows the courtyard to maintain a microclimate suitable for tropical vegetation, year-round."
The waiter began to lead Ethan along the stone path. Along the inner walls, framed under glass at intervals, hung calligraphy scrolls.
"The piece on your left, sir, was acquired by our proprietress two years ago. It's attributed to a master calligrapher from the Crescent Dynasty. Authenticated through three independent specialists."
"The piece in the alcove ahead is a personal gift to the proprietress from a major industrial figure in the southern provinces. Originally part of his family collection, presented as a gesture of respect."
"This third piece…"
The waiter continued down the corridor, identifying each scroll with the easy expertise of a man who had given this tour many times.
Ethan followed silently, listening with growing interest.
The decor of the inner courtyard could, he reflected, be produced by money. Lots of it, applied carefully, but money. The plants. The transparent canopy. The stonework. All purchaseable.
But the calligraphy scrolls were different.
Pieces of that historical pedigree did not come on the open market. They moved between collectors through carefully cultivated relationships, often passing as gifts in long-running personal exchanges that took decades to develop. The fact that this small, unmarked restaurant had several such pieces hanging casually on its inner walls suggested that the proprietress was not just a wealthy restaurateur. She was someone who had been deliberately cultivated by people who possessed access to the very top tier of the country's cultural artifacts.
The "proprietress" the waiter kept mentioning was, evidently, a person of considerable consequence.
Ethan filed the observation away. It was none of his business this evening, but it was the kind of detail that, in his experience, eventually became someone's business.
The waiter stopped at the deepest door in the corridor.
"Heaven Suite Three. Your party's room, sir."
He bowed, very deeply this time.
"Will there be anything else?"
"No. Thank you."
"At your service, sir."
The waiter retreated, leaving Ethan alone in front of the door.
He had no idea what "Heaven Suite Three" meant in the local establishment's nomenclature, but he could guess from the waiter's escalating deference that it was the highest tier the restaurant offered.
He pushed the door open.
-----
The room beyond was simply but beautifully appointed. A large round dining table in the center, set for ten with formal place settings. Along the walls, several smaller side tables for casual conversation between courses. The lighting was warm, the wood paneling honey-colored, the overall effect of a private space designed for important conversations between people who did not want to be overheard.
Eight people were already in the room. None of them were seated at the round table, the round table being clearly reserved for when Hargrove arrived. They were gathered in pairs and trios at the side tables, chatting amicably while they waited.
Ethan stood in the doorway and took stock.
The attendees were, as Hargrove had promised, all young professionals. Mid-twenties to mid-thirties. Sharp dressers. They carried themselves with the specific posture of people who held senior positions in research institutions or industrial firms: confident, well-groomed, slightly self-important. Each of them, by the look of it, was the kind of accomplished alumnus that Hartwell could parade in front of donor events.
These were the people Hargrove had vetted as potential leadership for New Future Technology Energy.
Ethan was, accordingly, looking them over with quiet, careful attention.
What he failed to anticipate was that they were also looking him over.
Hargrove, by general reputation, had not taken on a new student in nearly a decade. His youngest current pupil was in his late twenties. The young man who had just walked through the door, dressed nicely but indisputably looking around eighteen years old, did not match the demographic profile of anyone Hargrove was known to teach.
A man at the nearest side table looked up and frowned mildly.
"Kid. Wrong room?"
A woman at another table chimed in. "This is a private gathering. Hargrove's circle. You probably want a different suite."
"You're not serving food yet, are you? We haven't ordered."
The questions were polite but dismissive. Ethan, standing in the doorway, realized two things in rapid sequence.
First: Hargrove had apparently not informed the attendees of the actual purpose of the gathering. They thought this was a routine reunion of his students. They had no idea that Ethan Mercer, the man whose company they were being recruited for, was about to walk in.
Second: in his nicely-tailored but understated suit, with his recent haircut, he looked young enough to be mistaken for a waiter.
He was about to introduce himself when a fresh voice cut through the small chatter from the back of the room.
"It seems that woman, Yvette Caldwell, is letting standards slip at this restaurant."
The voice belonged to a man at the largest of the side tables. Mid-forties. Burly build. The bearing and rough features of someone who had clawed his way up through a rough industry. He was holding a glass of liquor and frowning toward Ethan in a way that was theatrical rather than genuine.
"This little waiter isn't even wearing a uniform. And he barged into a private room without knocking. Truly ill-mannered."
The room went briefly quiet.
The other attendees frowned but said nothing. Several of them exchanged subtle glances that suggested, don't engage, don't escalate, just let him say his piece and we move on.
The burly man, Ethan would shortly learn, was named Garrison Pike. He was apparently the kind of senior alumnus that the rest of the gathering had decided, collectively, to tolerate rather than confront.
Ethan, standing in the doorway, felt the temperature in his chest drop several degrees.
He had been mistaken for a waiter before. That was fine. He'd just gotten away with five servings of pork rice on someone else's bill an hour ago, which made the mistake feel more like a feature than a bug.
But the word ill-mannered, applied to him, was a different matter.
Ethan had been raised by Frank and Linda Holloway. Linda had, at every meal of his childhood, instilled a particular code of conduct: always thank people who serve you, always rise when an elder enters a room, always be the first to apologize when conflict arose, always be the second to take credit when success was shared. The code had not just been taught. It had been embedded. Frank reinforced it every weekend with stories about soldiers he'd served with who had embodied or violated those principles.
To be called ill-mannered was to attack the work of the two people who had raised him after his parents died.
Ethan's hands, at his sides, slowly closed into fists.
His jaw set.
And just as the heat behind his eyes began to crystallize into something dangerous, a different voice intervened.
"Garrison. Easy."
A woman in her early thirties stood up from a small side table. She had the warm, settled posture of someone who'd been in this same room many times, knew every other attendee, and felt comfortable enough to gently rebuke the worst-behaved among them. She wore a tailored cream blouse and dark trousers. Her hair was pinned back simply. Her face was kind, with the small lines around the eyes that suggested she smiled often.
"He's probably new. There's no need to make a scene."
Garrison Pike made a dismissive gesture and turned back to his drink. The burly man, having delivered his pronouncement, evidently considered the matter beneath further engagement.
The woman walked over to Ethan and gave him a gentle, apologetic smile.
"Sorry about that. He's been drinking already. Don't take it personally, he doesn't actually know what he's saying when he gets like this."
Her voice was soft, slightly self-conscious in the way that people who routinely apologize for the bad behavior of others get. Ethan felt the heat in his chest cool by a few degrees.
She extended a hand.
"It's all right here now. Whatever you came in for, take your time. Don't rush."
Ethan looked at her. He looked at the room.
Two seconds ago, his plan had been to introduce himself, watch the room re-orient, and observe how each person reacted to discovering they were in the presence of their potential employer.
A new plan had just occurred to him.
He had come here, ostensibly, to evaluate candidates for senior positions in New Future Technology Energy. Hargrove had hand-picked these eight people for their qualifications. But qualifications were only half the picture. Character was the other half. And he had just been given a perfect, unscripted glimpse into how this group of people behaved when they thought nobody important was watching.
If he introduced himself now, the group would re-orient. They would put on their best faces. He would learn nothing about who they actually were.
If he kept the misunderstanding going for a few more minutes, on the other hand, he would learn quite a bit.
He took a small breath, composed his expression into something a touch more nervous and uncertain, and gave the kind woman a small, grateful smile.
"Actually, ma'am… I'm sorry. Let me clarify. I'm not a waiter."
He paused.
"I'm one of Dr. Hargrove's students."
The woman blinked.
Her eyebrows climbed.
She gave him a long, evaluating look that traveled from his face to his haircut to his suit and back to his face.
"You're…" She trailed off. "You're a student of Dr. Hargrove's?"
Ethan, who had just made an executive decision to lie his way through this dinner, reached into his jacket pocket and produced the slip of paper Sutton had given him with the address. The note was, conveniently, in Hargrove's distinctive handwriting. The old man had personally written the dinner details that morning.
"He sent me this address."
The woman took the slip. Examined it. Confirmed the handwriting.
Her eyes widened further.
"Oh my God."
"Goodness, when did Teacher take on a new student this young?"
The room had gone quiet again. Several other attendees, having overheard, were now standing up and walking over to Ethan and the kind woman with expressions of curious surprise.
"Hargrove took on a new student? When?"
"And he's, what, eighteen?"
"Teacher kept this completely under wraps. We had no idea."
"That's flatly unfair. He's been keeping this kid hidden? When the next dinner is, I'm going to make him drink two glasses for this."
The chatter rose into appreciative excitement. The dynamic of the room had reorganized in seconds. The mistaken-for-a-waiter teenager was now the long-lost junior pupil, suddenly fascinating, suddenly worthy of attention.
The kind woman led Ethan over to the side table she'd been sitting at and gestured for him to take the seat next to hers.
"I'm Lily. Lily Snow. I've been one of Teacher's students for about eight years."
Ethan smiled, shook her hand, and made a snap decision about his cover.
"Evan Wright."
The name was a placeholder he'd used briefly during a quiet errand in Ashford City months earlier. A simple, forgettable cover that he'd built out of two of the most common given names in the Republic. It had served its purpose at the time, and using it now felt strangely nostalgic, a callback to a younger, less-public version of himself.
"It's a pleasure to meet you, Senior Sister Lily."
"Just Lily is fine. Or 'Lil,' if you want to make me feel old."
She smiled.
"Evan Wright. We'll call you 'Evan.' Or 'Junior Brother Evan,' if Teacher gets formal about it later."
She glanced at Garrison Pike, who was still scowling into his drink at the larger table.
"And don't take what Garrison said earlier seriously. He gets like this sometimes. He doesn't mean it."
Ethan, who had every intention of taking very seriously what Garrison Pike had said earlier, gave a small, polite shrug.
"Of course. I'm sure he didn't mean any harm."
The other students began drifting over, eager to introduce themselves to the previously-unknown new junior. Names came at Ethan in rapid sequence: Olivia, Marcus, Theresa, Gregory, Daniel, Annika. He filed each one away mentally, J.A.R.V.I.S. silently logging the audio through his watch microphone for later reference.
Eight candidates. Hargrove's hand-picked best.
One of them had just declared, in front of the rest, that an eighteen-year-old waiter wasn't worth basic courtesy.
The other seven had said nothing.
The kind woman, Lily, had stood up and intervened.
Ethan settled into his seat at her side table, accepted the cup of tea she poured for him, and prepared to listen very carefully.
The dinner had not yet officially started.
But the evaluation had.