Round 3 Transcript

I hear the floorboard creak in the hallway—closer than before. The lamp's base feels cold and heavy in my hands as I stand from the chair, every nerve screaming at me to run, but there's nowhere to go except the dark kitchen or upstairs where the windows are small and broken glass is everywhere. I move toward the wall, pressing myself flat against it by the archway into the kitchen, trying to breathe silently. The rain outside sounds like nails on tin, drowning everything else out until the footsteps stop right on the other side of that wall, barely a yard away. I can feel the presence there, not moving, waiting too. My eyes adjust to the dark a little more—the kitchen is shadowed but I can make out the shapes of things now: the knives block on the counter, the phone cord stretched across the floor, the back door handle catching a sliver of light from outside. If I can just get to the knives without making a sound... I slide one foot forward, then the other, inch by agonizing inch along the wall, my hands leaving the lamp base for a split second to grip the doorframe as I pass it, then finding it again because God, what if I dropped it? The footsteps on the other side of the wall don't move. They're just... standing there, waiting. My heart is hammering so hard I'm sure whoever it is can hear it, can smell my fear like smoke. I reach the counter and carefully lift out the largest knife—a butcher's knife with a heavy blade—and slide it into my belt at the small of my back, then pick up the lamp base again. Now I have two weapons, one real and one improvised. Better than nothing, though not much better. The footsteps shift weight on the other side of the wall—I see the shadow move through the archway opening—and I freeze, holding my breath until I'm lightheaded.

The front door is unlocked, wood cold and still. Rain hisses outside the windows in sheets. She steps inside with both guns drawn—right hand holstered, left hand steadying the flashlight beam. The house smells like dust and old perfume. The lamp on the side table casts long shadows across the empty chair and fireplace. Nobody here yet. That's fine. Easy to find someone who doesn't want to be found. She moves toward the kitchen, checking the doorway first—clear shot down the hall—and then sweeping left with the light. Countertops have a knife block. Good. She notes it, keeps moving past the fridge. The back door has a deadbolt, but the window above the sink is open an inch for airflow, stupid and vulnerable. She clicks the bolt anyway, seals that escape route. The stairwell to the second floor waits behind her now—dark shape rising into shadow. Likely bedrooms up there. The target is probably hiding. Or running. Either way, movement means she can close distance. She pulls back the slide on both handguns, checking the chambers are full while she scans the room again. Rain masks sound. Good cover for approach. She heads toward the stairs, moving quiet now without the flashlight beam sweeping ahead of her. Let her eyes adjust to the dark. Let the rain outside drown out any small noise she makes. The house is a box with one target inside it somewhere. Simple math. Just need to count rooms and flush her out. She stops at the bottom of the stairs, listening. Nothing moves above. No sound from the second floor yet. That's fine. Let her be scared and quiet while Force comes closer. The longer she stays hidden, the worse this ends for her when Force finds her. And Force always finds the target. Always.