Chapter 1: Nine Plates
The door hadn’t been opened in 30 years.
Agent Claire Morgan pulled her flashlight from her coat and stepped into the Berlin psychiatric hospital. The air was cold, thick with dust and something else. Something sour. Like old food.
“Stay behind me,” the local officer said. His German was clipped. “We don’t know what’s inside.”
Claire didn’t answer. She was staring at the sign above the door.
SPEISESAAL. DINING HALL.
The lock broke on the third hit. The door groaned open.
Inside, nothing had moved.
Nine chairs. Nine plates. Nine sets of cutlery.
All perfectly aligned on a long wooden table.
No dust on the plates.
No decay.
Like someone had set dinner last night and never came back to eat.
On the far wall, carved deep into the concrete with what looked like a fork, were three words:
THE HUNGER IS NOT OVER.
Claire walked to the head of the table. Her flashlight shook.
The 9th plate had a folded napkin on it. Under the napkin, a name tag, yellowed with age.
DR. MARKUS HALE.
She swallowed. Her aunt’s boss. One of the missing doctors.
“Agent Morgan,” the officer said behind her. “We should go. This place—”
Claire wasn’t listening.
Because at the end of the table, past the 9th chair...
was space for one more.
The floor was scuffed. Like a 10th chair had been dragged there recently.
And then dragged away.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket. Washington number.
“Agent Morgan,” a voice said. “We have another one.
D.C. Apartment. Dinner table set for two.
Only one person missing.
And on the wall... same message.”
Claire stared at the empty space.
The hunger wasn’t over.
It had just found a new table.