The key to Room 107 felt unnaturally cold in my hand, a sliver of polished brass that seemed to suck the warmth from my palm. The Grandiose Hotel was a faded beauty, all dusty chandeliers and the scent of old polish. I was here for a story, the same story that had consumed me for weeks: the disappearances. Seven people. Seven years. All from this same room.My editor called it a paranoid fantasy. I called it a pattern. Now, standing before the dark, varnished wood of door 107, the pattern felt less like a journalist’s hunch and more like a