Round 1 Transcript

The house is still. The front sitting room holds an upholstered chair where you sit, a side table beside it with a brass lamp casting warm light upward. Across from you, a cold stone fireplace gapes darkly—the iron poker leans against its hearth, heavy and solid. A narrow hallway leads deeper into the house: kitchen to your left, stairwell ascending to bedrooms straight ahead, back door visible at the far end past the foot of the stairs. Rain-streaked windows frame the black woods outside on every wall.

But something feels wrong. The silence is too complete—no creaking floorboards, no settling house sounds. And was that chair always pulled out slightly from the wall like that? Its shadow falls across the room in a way the lamp light shouldn't quite reach.

The lamp flickers. I stand, moving toward the kitchen where the knives wait in drawers near the back door's reach—escape route clear. The house is too quiet, holding its breath around me. That pulled-out chair scrapes against my nerves; something shifted here while I wasn't looking. The hallway stretches longer than it should, shadows pooling at the base of the stairs where the basement door lies open just a fraction more than before. Don't imagine things—focus on what's solid: the iron poker beside me, the phone cable long enough to reach anywhere in this damn house if needed, the rain outside that could cover any noise. First priority: eyes on every corner, hands ready to grab whatever suits my purpose.

I stand outside the house, pistol in hand, the other upon the door knob. I breath slowly, relaxed yet deliberate. I can hear faint movement from inside. Someone is home, and they seem to be alone. I press my mask firmly against my face, preparing to make my next move.