You pause a moment before opening the door, and decide to knock first. Upon receiving no response, you descend the narrow staircase toward your destiny. The air grows colder with each step, thick with the scent of old paper, cedar, and something faintly sweet—like burnt sugar and forgotten promises.

At the bottom, you find yourself in a long corridor lined with filing cabinets, luggage trunks, and faded portraits of bellhops long retired… or long vanished. The walls are stone, the floor creaks despite being made of tile, and somewhere in the distance, you hear the faint ding of an elevator that hasn’t worked in decades.

Your flashlight flickers.

Then, from the shadows, a figure emerges. He wears a crisp bellhop uniform—red with gold trim, perfectly pressed despite the dust of decades. His name tag reads D. Swanson, and his eyes glow faintly like the embers of a campfire. He floats an inch above the ground, holding a silver tray with nothing on it.

“I’ve been waiting,” he says, voice soft and echoing. “Most people forget to knock. You didn’t. That’s polite.” He tilts his head, studying you. “You’re here for the Château Token, aren’t you?”

You nod.

He sighs, a sound like a kettle just before it whistles. “I can’t just give it away. Not after all this time. But I’ll make you a deal.” He gestures to the tray. “Offer me something. Something that speaks of home. Of comfort. Of memory. If it’s worthy, the token is yours.”

You reach into your pouch and take a moment to consider your options. "Can I share something with you?"

D. Swanson smiles slowly. "Yes, sharing is always better."