Round 2 Transcript

I sit perfectly still in the front room chair, rain dripping from the eaves outside, the house creaking with age and dampness. The lamp on the side table is heavy—I check its base again, brass and solid, could maybe hurt someone if I had to. My grip tightens on the armrests as I hear a soft footstep in the hall. Too heavy for an animal. Someone's here. In my house. I don't remember inviting anyone. The fireplace poker is closer, leaning against the cold hearth, but moving for it would mean turning my back to the doorway and the sound of careful movement getting closer. My heart hammers in my chest. Stay silent. Stay still. Don't let them know you're here. Yet. I lean forward just enough to glimpse the narrow hallway leading toward the kitchen—the footsteps stop there, just out of sight. A shadow moves across the wall—someone's standing in the dark entryway between rooms, less than twenty feet away, probably looking into the kitchen now, checking corners. They haven't seen me yet in this chair facing away from the hall. The lamp base is my best weapon if this goes wrong—I could hit them hard with it if they come around this side of the room, but using it means making noise and alerting them to my position. I reach for the ceramic ashtray on the side table instead, small and dense, something I can throw first to create distance or disorient them before trying the lamp. My fingers brush the cool pottery. If they turn toward me now, I'm dead or trapped before I can even react. The footsteps shift again—moving back toward the kitchen now, away from me for the moment. I have maybe ten seconds to decide what I'm doing while they're looking away.

The house is dark and still—too still. The lamp on the side table casts a weak circle of light that does nothing to push back the shadows in the corners of the sitting room. Rain hammers the windows, masking any other sound. I can feel it: someone else here, not sleeping, not watching TV—waiting. My fingers tighten around the grip of one gun as I move deeper into the house, away from the front door. The narrow hallway to the kitchen offers cover but also a bottleneck. The stairs are to my left, leading up to bedrooms and more darkness. I check the brass lamp first—a heavy base that would make a good enough club if needed. Then the iron poker leans cold and heavy by the fireplace. I leave them both where they are for now—they're noise, movement—and take the kitchen instead. The drawer slides open almost silently. My hand wraps around a chef's knife, serrated edge, sharp enough to cut through bone. It's not a gun but it's better than nothing if I get close. I slide it into my back waistband and take another—the steak knife goes between my fingers, ready. Now I have options: distance or up-close. The house is small enough that I can clear it fast, methodically. I start with the downstairs bathroom first—empty, shower curtain pulled back, no place to hide. Then the guest room across from it—bed made, closet doors closed, nothing under the bed. The master bedroom at the end of the hall: king-size bed, clothes on the floor, walk-in closet half-open. I check inside first—quick, efficient—before moving to the bathroom. Shower curtain pulled back there too. The medicine cabinet shows pills and creams but no person hiding behind it. I'm running out of places for her to be downstairs. That leaves the stairs.