Round 7 Transcript

The sound of the poker striking something hard echoes through the kitchen hallway once more, followed by a low male grunt and the crashing against the counter. The air vibrates with tension, every creak of the old house making Jeane jump. The brass lamp on the side table catches her eye—a heavy base that could easily crack a skull. The intruder's movement ceases momentarily, as if assessing the situation. The kitchen drawer handle rattles again, the metal scraping against the tile in a slow, deliberate motion.

Jeane Cromwell stands in the dark living room, clutching an iron poker with both hands. Her knuckles ache from the tight grip. The heavy brass lamp sits on the side table within arm's reach, its cool metal a comfort against her sweat-slick palm. Behind her through the hallway comes the sound of something large being moved in the kitchen—drawer handles rattling, the scrape of wood on tile.

She freezes at the low male grunt that follows—the unmistakable sound of impact, someone striking something or someone else. The poker trembles in her hands. Fuck, she hums, her voice shaking despite her best efforts to control it. They're getting weapons—knives, anything sharp. They know I'm here now. She takes a step backward toward the lamp, her eyes fixed on the dark hallway leading to the kitchen.

Every instinct screams at her to run, to bolt for the front door and hope she can get out before they catch her. But that means leaving the safety of the house—stepping into the darkness of the woods where they could be waiting anywhere. She swallows hard, her throat clicking. Not like this, she mutters, lifting the poker with both hands like a baseball bat. Not in my own fucking house. She moves quickly then, grabbing the heavy brass lamp by its base and yanking it off the table. The cord pulls taut as she swings it around, the weight satisfying in her grip—something she can use.

With a deep breath that does nothing to steady her nerves, Jeane Cromwell steps into the hallway, lamp held high in her left hand, poker ready in her right. Come on then, you bastard, she calls out, her voice surprisingly steady despite the fear clawing at her throat. Let's see how you handle a proper welcome committee.

The kitchen light flickers once—Jeane's doing, probably. Too obvious. I move to the hallway mouth, press my back against the wall beside the doorframe. Rain beats the windows like drumming fists. The flashlight beam sweeps the floor again from the kitchen, wider this time, searching. I hear her breathing now, too fast and loud. Amateur. The poker leans against the fireplace—too heavy to carry quietly, but useful if she comes my way. My hands are full with these guns anyway. She's in there with knives, thinking she's safe behind that counter. Stupid.