Round 1 Transcript

The front sitting room was shrouded in darkness, illuminated only by the faint glow of the brass lamp on the side table. The cold fireplace stood silent, its iron poker leaning against the wall, a stark contrast to the warmth it once provided. The narrow hall to the kitchen and back door were visible, but the stairwell remained hidden from view. Rain-streaked windows on every side cast eerie shadows on the walls. The air was heavy with the scent of damp earth and wood smoke. A faint creaking sound emanated from below, a low, ominous hum that seemed to vibrate through the floorboards. The flashlight batteries in the kitchen junk drawer lay idle, their potential power unexplored.

I hear it again—the floorboards groaning downstairs, too low and steady to be the house settling. Someone is in my kitchen. The poker from the hearth feels solid in my hands as I cross to the hall. I won't let anyone violate this sanctuary twice. My voice cuts through the darkness: \"If you're here for something other than your own funeral, you have thirty seconds to leave or I start making noise that brings attention.\"

The sound from below wasn't furniture settling—it was deliberate weight testing the floorboards. Someone was in the house. She moved to the kitchen quickly, silently, checking corners and shadows as she went. The knife drawer offered options: a chef's knife, a paring knife, a boning knife. She chose the chef's knife—heavy, balanced, sharp—and gripped it in her right hand while keeping a loaded gun ready in her left. The rain outside intensified, masking any noise she might make. From the kitchen doorway, she could see down the narrow hallway to the front room and the stairwell beyond. The creaking sound came again, louder this time, from the basement stairs. Someone was coming up. She had seconds to decide: ambush here in the hall with a knife, or fall back to the kitchen where there were more options for traps and distance. She chose the kitchen. Retreating a few steps backward, she cleared the counter of obstacles, pulled a wooden chair to the center of the room, and positioned herself behind it—something solid between her and whoever was climbing those stairs. Her grip tightened on both weapon and knife. The basement door at the end of the hall began to open slowly.