"I used to think that hotel food, since it has to cater to the general public, would never be too strong in flavor. Most hotel meals I've ha
"I used to think that hotel food, since it has to cater to the general public, would never be too strong in flavor. Most hotel meals I've had confirmed that. But now I see... I was wrong."
Sitting by the window on the fourth floor of the hotel's restaurant, Karl admired the night view while chatting with Jack, who sat beside him. "I forgot—not all hotel restaurants are buffets. Some actually let you order à la carte."
"So, are you satisfied with dinner?" Jack asked, glancing at the empty bowl in front of Karl. "You didn't eat anything earlier when we were at the bar."
"It was enough to fill me up a little."
Finding a standard Japanese beef bowl in a Militech-controlled area wasn't all that surprising, really. Food was everywhere; even in Night City, the street vendors below Karl's apartment could whip up a hundred different cuisines. In a hotel that hosted international guests, offering foreign dishes was expected. Just don't expect them to taste authentic or amazing.
"Better not to order a second bowl though. The sauce is too heavy—it gets cloying fast."
"How about some pizza?" Jack suggested.
"I only saw Hawaiian pizza on the menu—the kind that makes Italians rage. You really think that's what I, an 'Italian noble,' should order?"
"Fair point."
Jack shrugged, then asked, "So, you're just gonna starve?"
"I've filled my stomach enough. Besides, if I really want something, I could order more... but honestly, the food here is mediocre."
Karl sighed. He had expected better from a Militech-affiliated hotel. He had wanted to enjoy a good meal, but reality had disappointed him again.
"V and Oliver should already be gathering intel," Karl said. "Let's just sit here, order some drinks, and keep up appearances. Maybe we'll catch something useful from the surrounding conversations."
Eavesdropping at restaurants was a common, almost cliché method of intelligence gathering. But because it was so common, it rarely produced valuable information.
In Karl's memory, sure, there were rare historical instances where someone overheard critical intel while dining—but compared to the countless meals happening every second worldwide, those cases were almost freakishly rare.
In fact, getting struck by lightning might be more statistically likely.
Especially now—there were so few guests around them. The odds of catching something useful were practically nonexistent.
"I'll order one more drink and then we're out of here," Karl said.
He had initially chosen to sit in the restaurant because it was dinner time and he figured guests might chat casually over food, letting slip some info. Plus, he really was a little hungry. But reality clearly didn't match expectations. Listening in wasn't getting them anything useful.
Karl and Jack had been doing their best to listen, but the few diners around them were cautious enough to lower their voices. At best, they caught random complaints about the food—utterly useless information.
The intel value was about the same as the meat content in their so-called "steak."
"Alright, dinner's over."
After downing a post-meal drink and still hearing nothing valuable, Karl stood up.
Overall, there weren't many diners even during peak hours. Karl suspected most guests preferred room service instead. With dinner time ending, there was no point staying any longer.
Seeing Karl stand up, Jack naturally rose too, following closely behind.
As they reached the restaurant entrance, Karl's eyes caught something by the service elevator.
A male waiter emerged, pushing a cart that still had food stains—likely soup or sauce spilled while moving.
Karl only needed one glance to notice many details.
The waiter had no visible cyberware enhancements on his arms. The stains on his sleeves matched the food stains on the cart. This suggested a simple accident—likely because he had to carry too much food at once, focusing on keeping the top trays stable and neglecting the lower ones.
From that alone, Karl could deduce two key points:
First, the large amount of food was likely destined for a single suite. If it were for multiple guests, the waiter could have delivered them separately. The posture needed to support that much food—hands cupped under the trays—would naturally cause sleeve stains like that.
Second, whoever was in that suite must be familiar with the waiter. Normally, a server would be much more cautious when delivering large orders. Sloppiness would risk offending an unfamiliar guest. But here, the waiter clearly felt comfortable rushing.
Meaning either:
"Just leave it there and go."
Or:
"Oh, it's you. Just put it over there."
Whichever the case, it implied a close familiarity, possibly built over many prior deliveries.
Long-term residence. Frequent, large meal orders. Unknown number of occupants.
"Make a note of it."
Karl thought to himself as he exited the restaurant.
Add to the list of suspects.
There were still many details to sort out later, but when it came to investigations like this, all you needed was a little suspicion.
Karl wasn't running a court case.
He didn't need hard evidence—only doubts.
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