Round 8 Transcript

The sound of a heavy metal drawer slamming shut echoes through the kitchen. The brass table lamp now rests on the countertop, its base heavy and solid. A faint scent of metal and oil lingers in the air.

Jeane grips the lamp tightly, her knuckles white with tension, as she backs away from the dark doorway, eyes fixed on the spot where The Force entered the kitchen. The flashlight casts eerie shadows on the walls, making it seem as though The Force is lurking just out of sight, waiting for its next move.

Jeane grips the heavy brass lamp by its base like a club, holding it ready while she backs toward the far counter. Her eyes stay fixed on the dark doorway opening into the kitchen. She sees a figure move through the archway—a woman with short dark hair and wearing all black, carrying a knife. Who the fuck are you? Jeane's voice shakes but she forces it steady. Get out of my house now or I'm calling the police. She gestures with the lamp. This is my property and I will defend myself.

The Force moves through the kitchen with purpose. The window above the sink shows only darkness—woods, no road, no other houses visible. She checks the back door, finds it locked but not barred, then opens a drawer quietly: knives inside, sharp enough. Her head tilts slightly, listening. The house feels wrong, too quiet, like something is holding its breath. She pulls out the heaviest knife—a carving set—and grips it with her right hand while keeping a gun ready in her left. Her eyes scan the room, noting escape routes: the doorway to the living room, the window above the sink if she needs to break out fast. The floorboards creak under her weight—old house, no help there. She moves toward the living room archway, back pressed to the wall, and peers around the corner. Empty space, dim light from the entryway. Still no sign of the intruder. But she feels it now, a pressure in her chest: someone else is definitely in this house.