The heavy wooden door separating the dining area from the kitchen flew open. Stefanie burst out—
naked, stumbling; her blonde hair matted with dark sauce, her skin glistening with grease and
stained with rosemary and thyme. Her eyes were wide with panic. "Sarah!
Oh God, Sarah!" she screamed, tripping over her own feet. The kitchen behind her was a vision of hell:
butcher hooks gleaming in the dim light, a roaring fire spitting sparks, dark stains on the stone floor.

Chaos erupted instantly. The murmuring guests froze,
then sprang up as if on command, their faces twisting into masks of predatory
hunger. The innkeeper lunged forward and grabbed Stefanie’s arm. Chairs scraped loudly across the
stone floor. The tavern turned into a trap. Egon leapt up immediately,
shoving the heavy oak table aside with a strained grunt, sending steaming bowls crashing to the floor.
That created a brief barrier. His pistol was already in his hand, cocked with practiced speed.

"Stefanie! Over here!" The scream tore from my throat, raw with panic and disbelief.
How had she gotten here in the first place? Had she followed me? Stefanie rushed toward us,
slipping on the spilled soup; her legs flashed pale in the flickering firelight. The mob closed in,
grasping hands reaching for her smooth skin, their eyes fixed on her with terrifying
intent. They weren't just hostile; they looked hungry. The old man roared.
His incredibly deep and powerful voice made the low ceiling beams tremble.