Round 8

In the dimly lit front sitting room, the single woman's hooded jacket seemed out of place among the modern decor, her black clothes a stark contrast to the cold stone fireplace. The iron poker, a heavy metal instrument, lay on the side table, its presence a reminder of the potential threat lurking within the house. The sound of rain pattering against the windows created an unsettling melody, and the woman's eyes scanned the room with a mix of caution and determination. She had checked downstairs, finding no signs of the intruder, but now she sensed their presence, moving slowly and deliberately through the rooms. The house seemed to be holding its breath, waiting for the inevitable confrontation.