Round 10

In the dimly lit living room, Jeane Cromwell gripped the iron poker tightly, her knuckles aching from the forceful grip. The brass lamp on the side table seemed a comforting presence, its cool metal a reassuring weight in her sweaty palm. Behind her, the hallway leading to the kitchen creaked with deliberate slowness, the sound of metal scraping against tile echoing through the silence. The Force moved with calculated stealth, pressed against the cold brick beneath the kitchen window, her eyes fixed on the narrow gap between the window and the frame. The rain drummed a relentless beat outside, its rhythmic pulse a stark contrast to the tension building within the house.