Round 8

In the dimly lit living room, Jeane's gaze settled on the brass lamp, its heavy base a reassuring presence against her sweaty palm. The intruder's movement paused, as if weighing their next step. The kitchen drawer handle rattled again, scraping against the tile in a slow, deliberate motion. Jeane's knuckles ached from the tight grip on her iron poker, her eyes fixed on the doorframe beside the kitchen, where The Force stood pressed back, her flashlight beam sweeping the floor for any sign of movement.

The Force's hands were full with knives, but she had firearms too, and she knew exactly how to use them. Her focus was on locating and identifying the intruder threat, maintaining a tactical advantage through darkness and silence. The sound of something large hitting the floor—a grunt of effort—echoed from the kitchen, and Jeane knew it was him, he was here in the house with her. The floorboards creaked under weight, moving closer, and she could hear his breathing, labored and uneven.