Chapter 50: The Chairman's Car
Dr. Hamin Cho was calibrating the bidirectional signal detector when Ethan sat down across from her in the dining hall.
The detector's display showed a flatline — the waveform deviation that had persisted at 1.4% to 3.1% amplitude for twenty-five hours was gone. The containment ring's synchronization with the binding's electromagnetic signature had collapsed four minutes ago. The channel through which the dungeon had transmitted the Arthur Cross memory was closed. The machine had finished mapping the binding's resonance and had returned to its primary function: containment of the Core it had been assembled around.
The instruments beeped. The junior technician monitoring the overnight shift glanced up as Ethan pulled out a chair, then returned to the waveform display — now recording ambient baseline, nothing unusual, the particular blankness of a system that had been measuring an anomaly and was now measuring the absence of one.
Dr. Cho didn't look up. Her hands moved across the detector's interface, recording timestamp data from the calibration cycle's final phase. Her reading glasses sat low on her nose. The particular concentration of a researcher who had been monitoring twenty-five hours of waveform data and was now cross-referencing the final readings against the initial baseline.
"The containment ring completed its cycle at 7:58 AM," she said, still reading the display. "Calibration data is stable. The ring's resonance field matched the binding's electromagnetic signature within 0.3% deviation across the full spectrum. The mapping function recorded 2.4 gigabytes of binding topology data. Captain Yoo Hana's team will begin dismantling the extraction apparatus at—" She paused, tapping a sequence into the interface. "—10:00 AM, pending Commander Park's authorization."
"The channel through the ring's synchronization," Ethan said.
Dr. Cho's fingers stopped. She looked up. The particular stillness of a researcher who had noticed a hotel manager using technical terminology that a hotel manager should not possess.
"Channel?" she said.
"The containment ring's mapping function synchronized with the binding's resonance frequency during calibration," Ethan said. "The synchronization created a passive communication pathway — the ring's electromagnetic field overlapped with the building's ambient systems, which are connected to the Core through structural pathways. The dungeon used that overlap to embed data in the ring's recording architecture. While the ring was mapping the binding, the dungeon was transmitting through the same frequency."
Dr. Cho set down her stylus. She removed her reading glasses. She folded them with the particular precision of a researcher who was shifting from data collection to analysis mode.
"You're describing an unintended bidirectional communication channel," she said. "The containment ring was designed to emit a one-way containment field. If the binding's resonance frequency matched the ring's calibration frequency during the mapping cycle, the ring's passive recording function could theoretically capture structured data embedded in the resonance field by an external source."
"The external source was the dungeon. The channel existed for the duration of the calibration cycle. It closed when the containment ring powered down."
Dr. Cho leaned back in her chair. The dining hall hummed around them — fluorescent lights at eighty percent output, the coffee machine engaged, the particular increase in ambient activity that had begun when the building spoke at 8:00 AM. The instruments beeped. The junior technician was watching them now, stylus poised above the display, the particular alertness of a person who understood that the conversation occurring across the table was not part of the standard calibration protocol.
"How much data did the dungeon transmit?" Dr. Cho asked.
"I don't know the exact volume. I noticed the waveform deviation during the calibration cycle — the detector picked up the amplitude fluctuation between 1.4% and 3.1%. I assumed it was a calibration artifact. It wasn't until after the containment ring powered down that I realized the fluctuation had a structure. A pulse interval of 4.2 seconds. Consistent frequency. Not random noise."
"The detector recorded the deviation. I have the data." Dr. Cho turned to the junior technician. "Pull the waveform archive from the last twenty-five hours. Filter for sustained periodic deviations in the 1.4% to 3.1% amplitude range, 4.2-second pulse interval."
The technician's fingers moved across the display. The screen filled with archived waveform data — the long, oscillating line of the containment ring's calibration cycle overlaid with the deviation that had persisted for twenty-five hours. The deviation was visible even in the compressed timeline view: a regular pattern embedded in the ring's baseline output, distinct from the calibration sequence, the particular signature of a signal that had been transmitted through the equipment's recording architecture while the equipment was performing its primary function.
Dr. Cho studied the waveform for thirty seconds. Her expression was the particular stillness of a researcher who had found exactly what she was looking for and was now processing the implications.
"The dungeon embedded structured data in the containment ring's binary recording architecture," she said. "The ring's calibration function was engineering signals for its own instruments. The dungeon transmitted through the ring's passive mapping function — a channel that the tracker does not monitor." She looked at Ethan. "This is the same technique the dungeon used to transmit through the tracker's binary architecture during the sustained contact test. The dungeon identifies recording systems and embeds data in their output streams. It doesn't need the data to be transmitted in real-time. It needs the data to be recorded and analyzed later, by people who will decode it."
"The report goes to Chairman Yoon," Ethan said.
Dr. Cho was quiet for five seconds. The particular silence of a researcher who understood that the information she had just verified would change the institutional classification of the facility she was standing in.
"The report goes to Commander Park," she said. "Commander Park sends it to the Classification Board. The Classification Board routes it to Chairman Yoon's office. That process takes—" She checked her watch. "—four to six hours for Priority One classified material. Depending on current office throughput."
"The Chairman is arriving today."
Dr. Cho looked at Ethan. The particular attention of a person who had been processing data about a dungeon that could embed information in Association equipment and was now connecting that capability to the arrival of the man who ran the Association.
"Chairman Yoon arrives at approximately 12:47 PM," she said. "The report would normally reach his desk after his departure. If I route the report through Commander Park's field communication channel instead of the standard classification pipeline, it reaches his vehicle during transit. He reads it before he arrives."
"Do that."
Dr. Cho replaced her reading glasses. She turned to the junior technician and began issuing instructions with the particular efficiency of a researcher who had been given a clear directive and was converting it into institutional action. The waveform archive was extracted. The deviation data was flagged. The report was drafted in the field communication format that bypassed the Classification Board's standard processing queue.
Ethan sat in the dining hall and watched Dr. Cho work. The fluorescent lights hummed at eighty percent output. The coffee machine brewed — the particular aroma of fresh coffee drifting through the dining hall, the building operating at full capacity for the first time in thirty-six hours. The instruments beeped. The waveform display showed the flatline of a system that had been measuring an anomaly and was now measuring the aftermath.
Dr. Cho worked with the particular focus of a person who understood that the report she was composing would reach the most powerful man in the Dungeon Hunter Association approximately four hours before he arrived at a facility that had been using his own equipment as a communication relay. She did not rush. She did not ask Ethan why he was disclosing this information now, after the calibration had ended, after the channel had closed, after the dungeon had finished transmitting. She processed the data. She drafted the report. She filed it through the field communication channel.
At 8:47 AM, Dr. Cho sent the report. The field communication system confirmed transmission. The report would reach Chairman Yoon's vehicle during transit. Chairman Yoon would read the report before he arrived at the Meridian Grand.
The countdown had four hours.
Ethan climbed the stairs from the dining hall to the second floor.
The building was different.
Not dramatically — not the way the Core chamber had changed when the extraction apparatus was assembled, or the way the lobby had shifted when the dungeon spoke through the walls. The difference was subtler. The particular shift of a building that was performing a function it had been designed for, the way a kitchen performs differently when a full meal is being prepared versus when it is simply maintaining ambient temperature.
The hallway lights on the second floor were warm — not the institutional fluorescent white of the conservation mode, but the particular amber tone of incandescent fixtures that had not been operational since Ethan inherited the hotel. He had never seen these lights on. The building had been running on fluorescent systems since his first day, the incandescent fixtures dark, their wiring corroded, their bulbs dusty. Now they glowed. The amber light filled the hallway with a warmth that the fluorescent fixtures could not produce — the particular quality of a light source that had been designed to make a guest feel welcome.
The carpet had changed. Ethan stopped in the middle of the hallway and looked down. The carpet under his boots was different from the carpet he had walked on every day since he moved into Room 201. The color was deeper — not the faded burgundy of a building that had been abandoned for decades, but the saturated burgundy of a carpet that was being maintained. The texture was different, too. The particular resilience of a surface that was being cared for.
Ethan knelt and touched the carpet. It was dry. It was warm. The fibers sprang back under his fingers. The building was restoring itself — not the structural repairs that Ethan had been managing through hotel revenue and dungeon upgrades, but the original finishes. The Meridian Grand as it had been before the decades of neglect. Before Arthur Cross died. Before the dungeon went dormant. Before the building became a ruin that a barista would inherit and attempt to convert into a functioning hotel.
Room 100 was being prepared. And the preparation was pulling the entire building upward, restoring it floor by floor, surface by surface, the particular response of a consciousness that was preparing to host its most important guest in thirty years.
Ethan walked to the end of the hallway. The door to Room 202 was open. Sera was inside, sitting on the bed, her blade harness across her lap, her eyes on the window. The particular stillness of a person who had been monitoring the building's ambient systems through her S-rank sensory capabilities and had noticed the same changes Ethan had.
"The lights," she said.
"I saw them."
"The carpet. The temperature. The ambient energy output has increased from sixty percent to ninety-three percent since the containment ring powered down. The building is redirecting energy from the extraction apparatus's former allocation to the interior restoration systems. The dungeon is no longer feeding the machine. The dungeon is feeding the hotel."
Ethan leaned against the doorframe. The hallway behind him glowed with amber light — the particular warmth of a building that was preparing for a guest.
"Room 100," he said.
"I can feel it from here. The room is on Floor 100, directly below the Core chamber. The energy draw is significant — the dungeon is channeling power through the building's structural pathways to the room. Furniture, lighting, climate control, the particular systems that a guest room requires to be functional." Sera's eyes moved from the window to Ethan. "The room is being furnished. Not by the building's maintenance systems. By the dungeon's internal architecture. The room is being shaped."
"The dungeon said 'prepare the room.' The building is obeying."
"The building has always obeyed. The building is the dungeon. The distinction between the hotel and the dungeon is the distinction between a body and the mind that operates it. When the dungeon speaks through the building, it is speaking through itself." Sera paused. "The building spoke for the first time in thirty years at 8:00 AM. The calibration cycle ended. The containment ring powered down. The channel closed. The dungeon no longer needed to communicate through indirect channels. It spoke directly. Through the walls."
"And now it's preparing Room 100."
"The room has always been prepared. The dungeon has been maintaining Room 100 in dormant readiness since Arthur Cross died. The current activity is not preparation. It's activation. The room was always ready. The dungeon is simply ensuring that every system is calibrated for the specific guest who will check in at 12:47 PM."
Ethan looked at the hallway. The amber lights glowed. The carpet was warm. The building hummed with the particular energy of a system operating at full capacity.
"The report reaches Yoon's vehicle during transit," Ethan said. "Dr. Cho routed it through Commander Park's field communication channel. He'll read it before he arrives. He'll know the dungeon transmitted data through the extraction apparatus. He'll know the containment ring created an unintended communication channel. He'll know the dungeon is more sophisticated than the Association believed."
"And if he reads the report and comes anyway?"
"He comes with information. He comes knowing that the dungeon engineered his arrival. He comes knowing that Room 100 has been reserved for him. He comes knowing that the building he is walking into is not the facility the Association assessed. It's a two-hundred-year-old dungeon that has been waiting for him."
Sera's eyes returned to the window. The street outside was empty. The particular stillness of a Tidefall morning in the old quarter — low traffic, fewer pedestrians, the particular quiet of a neighborhood that had been declining for decades.
"He'll bring his security detail," she said. "He'll bring Commander Park's remaining personnel. He'll bring the Extraction Division's rapid response unit. He'll bring the institutional authority of the Dungeon Hunter Association. He'll walk through the front door with the full weight of the organization behind him."
"The front door."
"The revolving door. The same revolving door that sealed the exits when Maren tried to leave. The same revolving door that jammed when you tried to leave on your second day." Sera turned to look at Ethan. "The dungeon controls the door. The dungeon controls the building. The dungeon invited Yoon. The dungeon will let him in."
Ethan said nothing. The amber light filled the hallway. The carpet was warm under his boots. The building hummed with renewed energy, the particular vibration of a consciousness that had been running an operation for thirty years and was now watching the final hours of its countdown tick away.
At 10:15 AM, the Extraction Division's rapid response unit began dismantling the containment apparatus.
Captain Yoo Hana supervised from the Core chamber threshold — the particular efficiency of an officer who had been managing a technical operation for thirty hours and was now executing the decontamination protocol. The containment ring was disassembled in reverse order: the four sections separated, the calibration sensors retracted, the resonance field generators powered down and packaged for transport. The Core pulsed on its pedestal — amber light through crystalline facets, the particular rhythm of a consciousness that had been using the extraction apparatus as an unwitting communication relay and was now watching the machine that had served its purpose being carried away in four sections.
Ethan stood in the lobby and watched the Extraction Division personnel carry the apparatus sections through the loading dock. The particular efficiency of a team that had assembled a sophisticated machine in ninety minutes and was now dismantling it in roughly the same timeframe. The loading dock door — which had refused to open past three centimeters when Maren tried to leave — opened fully for the Extraction Division's transport vehicles. The dungeon permitted the apparatus to leave. The machine had served its purpose. The machine was no longer needed.
Commander Park emerged from the dining hall at 10:33 AM. She crossed the lobby with the particular stride of an officer who had received new orders and was executing them without discussion. The Association's field presence was restructuring — the twelve personnel inside the building were being reorganized from assessment configuration to reception configuration. The Core Research Division team was packing their instruments. The Extraction Division's forward position was being demobilized. The rapid response unit was moving to a standby position outside the building.
"Chairman Yoon's convoy departs Association HQ at 11:30 AM," Commander Park said to Ethan as she passed the front desk. "Estimated arrival: 12:47 PM. The Chairman's security detail will precede the convoy by fifteen minutes. You will receive them at the front entrance."
"Reception configuration," Ethan said.
"The Chairman's visit is classified as a Priority One site inspection. Protocol requires the site operator to be present at the entrance upon the security detail's arrival. You will be at the front desk. You will present the guest ledger. You will provide a verbal summary of the facility's operational status. The Chairman will review the report that Dr. Cho filed at 8:47 AM during transit." Commander Park paused at the revolving door. "The report was routed through my field communication channel. I read it before forwarding. The dungeon transmitted structured data through the extraction apparatus's recording architecture. The containment ring created an unintended communication channel during calibration. The dungeon exploited this channel to transmit information that the Association's monitoring systems did not detect."
"You read the report."
"I read the report. The report describes a capability that the Association's threat assessment did not account for. I forwarded the report to Chairman Yoon's vehicle with a priority flag. The Chairman will have approximately two hours to process the report before arrival." Commander Park looked at Ethan — the particular attention of an officer who was evaluating the person she had been assigned to manage. "The report does not identify who disclosed the transmission channel."
Ethan said nothing.
"The report attributes the disclosure to Dr. Cho's post-calibration analysis. Dr. Cho identified the waveform deviation during her standard review of the containment ring's output data. The analysis is consistent with her methodology. The report is institutionally clean." Commander Park turned to the revolving door. "The security detail arrives at 12:32 PM. Be at the front desk."
She pushed through the revolving door and disappeared into the morning light.
Ethan stood behind the front desk. The guest ledger was open on the counter — the particular display of a system that tracked every guest who had ever registered at the Meridian Grand. The entries scrolled in chronological order. Arthur Cross, Room 100, 1887. Yoon Seo-jin, Room 100, forged in Ethan's handwriting three days ago.
The countdown had two hours and fifteen minutes.
At 11:47 AM, Ethan found Maren in Room 201.
She was sitting on the bed, her wrapped arm resting on her knee. The pull signal was still present — a low hum beneath the floor, the particular resonance of a frequency that had been transmitting for hours and had weakened but not disappeared. The amber light from the hallway leaked through the gap under the door, the building's restored incandescent fixtures casting warm light across the carpet.
"How are you feeling?" Ethan asked.
"The pull is weaker. It was strongest last night, when the dungeon was transmitting the full message. Now it's—" Maren paused, searching for the word. "Background. Like a radio that's been turned down but not off. The signal is still there. The dungeon is still transmitting. But the main message has been delivered."
"Can you leave?"
"I tried the revolving door at 9:00 AM. It didn't seal. It opened normally. I walked onto the sidewalk, walked back in. The exits are unsealed." Maren looked at her wrapped arm. "The dungeon stopped holding the doors after it spoke through the building. It doesn't need to keep me here anymore. The message was delivered. The invitation was made. I declined. The dungeon accepted my refusal."
"You're sure?"
"The pull signal is weaker because the dungeon's attention has shifted. It was using the pull to transmit the Room 100 data. The data has been transmitted. The channel is no longer needed. The dungeon is no longer calling me." Maren's eyes met Ethan's. "The dungeon is calling someone else now. I can feel it — the building's energy is directed downward. Toward Room 100. The preparation is ongoing. The room is being furnished. The room is being heated. The room is being made ready for a guest who arrives in—" She checked the clock on the nightstand. "—one hour."
"You can leave the hotel. You should leave the hotel."
"I know." Maren didn't move from the bed. "I'm going to stay. Not because the pull is pulling me. Because I want to see what happens when he walks through that door."
Ethan looked at Maren for a long time. The particular stillness of a person who had been pulled toward a dungeon by a signal she didn't understand, had received a message she didn't expect, and had been offered a room in a building that wanted to absorb her consciousness — and had declined. The pull had weakened. The invitation had been refused. The exits were unsealed. Maren could leave. She was choosing to stay.
"The lobby," Ethan said. "Not the second floor. Not anywhere near the Core chamber or the basement stairs. The lobby. Behind the front desk."
"I'll be there."
At 12:15 PM, the building changed again.
Ethan was behind the front desk when he felt it — a shift in the building's ambient energy that was qualitatively different from the restoration he had observed in the hallway. The amber lights in the lobby brightened from eighty percent to ninety-five percent output. The temperature rose one degree. The coffee machine, which had been producing fresh coffee since 8:00 AM, switched from its standard blend to a richer roast — the particular aroma of a dark roast that Ethan had never stocked, that the hotel's kitchen did not contain, that the building was producing from its own infrastructure.
The front desk polished itself. Ethan watched the surface of the counter transform — the scratches and water marks that he had never been able to fully remove faded, the wood grain deepened, the brass fixtures gleamed. The guest ledger, which had been displaying its centuries of entries in the standard format, shifted to a different display: a single page, blank, with a header in gold lettering that read "CHECK-IN" and a line below it that read "YOON SEO-JIN — ROOM 100."
The building was setting the stage.
Ethan looked at the blank line below the header. The particular absence of a check-in time, a signature, a key assignment. The building was waiting for the guest to complete the registration. The reservation existed. The room was prepared. The only thing missing was the guest himself.
Jonas Wren descended from the third floor at 12:20 PM. He crossed the lobby with the particular gait of a person who had been observing the building's transformation from an upper floor and was now processing the changes at close range. His eyes moved from the amber lights to the polished front desk to the gold-lettered guest ledger.
"The building smells like coffee," Jonas said. "Not the hotel's coffee. Something older. Richer. Like the kind of coffee you'd find in a lobby that's been operating for a hundred years."
"The building is preparing for a guest."
"I can see that." Jonas looked at the revolving door. "The street is empty. The security detail was supposed to arrive at 12:32 PM. It's 12:20. The street should have Association vehicles by now."
Ethan looked through the revolving door. The old quarter street was empty — no vehicles, no pedestrians, the particular stillness of a neighborhood that had been quiet all morning. The amber light from the lobby spilled through the glass, painting the sidewalk in warm tones.
Then Ethan saw it.
A black vehicle at the far end of the street. Not moving. Parked at the intersection where the old quarter met the main arterial road. The particular silhouette of an Association-standard transport — matte black, no markings, the vehicle type that Commander Park's team had arrived in three days ago.
A second vehicle appeared behind the first. Then a third. Three black vehicles, parked in sequence at the intersection, engines running, headlights on.
The security detail.
They were not approaching the hotel. They were waiting. The particular posture of a security team that had arrived at the designated time and was now performing a final assessment of the building's exterior before escorting their principal to the entrance.
The countdown had twenty-seven minutes.
Ethan stood behind the front desk. The guest ledger displayed the blank check-in page. The coffee machine produced dark roast that filled the lobby with an aroma that did not come from any supply the hotel possessed. The amber lights glowed at ninety-five percent. The building hummed with the particular energy of a consciousness that had been engineering this moment for thirty years and was now watching the final minutes of its countdown through every window, every surface, every structural pathway that connected the Core chamber to the lobby to the revolving door that would open for the most important guest in the building's history.
At 12:32 PM, the security detail's vehicles moved.
Three black vehicles, rolling down the old quarter street in formation, headlights cutting through the midday light, tires on wet pavement. The particular sound of institutional authority arriving at a facility it believed it was there to assess. The vehicles stopped in front of the Meridian Grand. Doors opened. Four security personnel emerged — black suits, earpieces, the particular alertness of people who had been briefed on a Priority One site and were now scanning the building's exterior for threats.
Behind the security vehicles, a fourth vehicle appeared. Larger. The particular silhouette of a command transport — matte black, reinforced chassis, tinted windows that reflected the amber light spilling from the hotel's lobby. The vehicle stopped behind the security detail. The engine idled.
Ethan looked through the revolving door. The security personnel were approaching the entrance — two at the front, one on each side, the particular formation of a close protection team clearing a path for their principal. The vehicle's rear door remained closed. The engine idled. The tinted windows reflected the amber light.
The building spoke.
Not through the walls. Not through the vibration that had echoed through every floor at 8:00 AM. The building spoke through the ambient systems — through the lights, through the temperature, through the coffee machine that shifted from dark roast to an even richer blend, through the particular harmony of a consciousness that was expressing itself through every system it controlled.
The revolving door opened.
Not because someone pushed it. Not because the hydraulic mechanism engaged through manual force. The revolving door opened the way it had opened on Ethan's first night at the Meridian Grand — slowly, smoothly, the particular motion of a building welcoming a guest who had been expected for a very long time.
The security team paused. The lead agent looked at the revolving door, then at the building, then at the command vehicle. The particular hesitation of a person who had not opened the door and was watching it open on its own.
The command vehicle's rear door opened.
A man emerged.
Chairman Yoon was taller than Ethan expected. The public images — Association press conferences, Guild ceremony photographs, regulatory announcements — showed a man of average height, the particular flatness of institutional portraiture that stripped personality from its subjects. The man standing on the sidewalk outside the Meridian Grand was taller, leaner, the particular precision of a body that had been reshaped by three consumed Dungeon Cores and was carrying more power than any single human frame should contain. His suit was dark. His hair was gray. His eyes were the particular depth of a person who had been looking at things that most people could not see for longer than most people could endure.
The amber light from the lobby spilled through the open revolving door and fell across Chairman Yoon's face. He looked at the light. He looked at the door. He looked at the building — the restored facade, the warm windows, the particular grandeur of a structure that had been hiding its true nature for two hundred years and was now, in this moment, displaying itself.
The building was inviting him in.
Chairman Yoon walked toward the revolving door. His security detail flanked him — two ahead, two behind, the particular formation of a close protection team escorting their principal into a facility that had opened its own door. The sidewalk was clean. The building's exterior was restored — the stonework polished, the brass fixtures gleaming, the particular dignity of a hotel that had been preparing for this moment since before the man walking toward it had been born.
Yoon reached the revolving door. He paused. His hand rose — the particular gesture of a person who was about to touch a surface and was pausing to assess whether the surface would respond. His fingers hovered over the brass handle. The amber light from the lobby fell across his hand.
He pushed the door.
The revolving door turned. Chairman Yoon stepped into the Meridian Grand.
The lobby received him. The amber lights brightened — ninety-five percent to one hundred percent, the particular increase of a system acknowledging the arrival of its expected guest. The coffee machine poured a fresh cup — dark roast, the particular aroma of a blend that existed only in the building's own infrastructure. The temperature settled at twenty-one degrees. The guest ledger displayed the check-in page: YOON SEO-JIN — ROOM 100.
Ethan stood behind the front desk. The guest ledger was open between them. The dark roast coffee steamed on the counter. The amber light filled the lobby with a warmth that the fluorescent fixtures could never produce.
Chairman Yoon walked across the lobby. His security detail fanned out — two stationed at the entrance, one moving to the left corridor, one remaining at Yoon's shoulder. The particular efficiency of a team that had secured hundreds of facilities and was now securing one that had opened its own door.
Yoon stopped at the front desk. He looked at Ethan. The particular attention of a man who had read Dr. Cho's report during transit and was now looking at the person who managed the facility described in that report. His eyes moved from Ethan's face to his hands — the particular scan of a person who knew what a Dungeon Lord's binding looked like and was searching for it.
Ethan placed his right hand flat on the counter. Palm down. The seal on his palm was visible — lines and angles that matched the hotel's faded crest, the particular mark of a binding that had been active for weeks and was now being displayed to the man who had dedicated his career to destroying its kind.
Yoon looked at the seal. He looked at the guest ledger. He looked at the coffee. He looked at the amber light.
"Mr. Cross," he said.
"Welcome to the Meridian Grand," Ethan said. "You have a reservation."