1 Year Later. Washington D.C.
Night shift in the FBI archives. Boring.
Claire Morgan was closing files. THE EMPTY TABLE - CLOSED
Not a single case since that day. Not a single plate.
A knock at the door. The night guard.
"Agent Morgan, this came for you."
He held out a package. No sender. Postmark: Berlin.
Inside: a plate. White. Blue pattern on the rim.
The same one from Berlin.
And under the plate, a note:
_You broke the table.
But you didn't feed us.
• The 9_
Claire’s breath caught.
Her phone rang. Unknown number.
"Hello?"
Static. Then a voice. No — 9 voices. Speaking at the same time.
_"We’re hungry, Claire. We waited 30 years. You made us wait 1.
The table broke. We scattered.
Now we’re everywhere. One bite here, one bite there."_
"What do you want?" Claire asked.
_"Not food. A host.
Daniel left. You didn’t sit.
Now it’s our turn. We choose."_
Click. The call ended.
Claire pulled up the computer. Missing persons reports from the last 24 hours.
12 cases. 12 cities.
Common thread: Last seen in the kitchen.
Common detail: Families said they were "so hungry."
Then an email came in. A video.
Security footage. 3am. An apartment kitchen.
A woman gets up in her sleep. Opens the fridge. Empty.
Goes to the counter. Takes out a plate. A fork.
Sits down. Waits.
And the first word out of her mouth: "Claire?"
It was Laura Reed’s neighbor.
Claire shot out of her chair.
The table wasn’t in one place anymore.
The 9 had split into 9 different houses.
And all of them were looking for a "10th."
Her phone rang again. Daniel.
"Did you hear it too?" he whispered. He sounded exhausted. "They found me.
They came to my kitchen last night. 9 chairs. 9 shadows.
‘You’re the new host’ they said. I ran."
"Where are you?" Claire asked.
"On my way. To Berlin. To Storage 9.
If the concrete cracked, that’s the only place we can lock them back up."
Claire grabbed her keys. The plate from the package was still on her desk.
"We’re going," she said. "This time the table doesn’t trap us.
We trap them at the table."