Round 7

In the dimly lit stairwell, Jeane's cautious descent was accompanied by the creaking of the wooden treads, each step a deliberate warning to the unknown intruder below. The air grew thick with the scent of mold and gunpowder, mingling with the faint tang of woodsmoke, as if the house itself was exhaling a mixture of decay and menace. The Force watched from the shadows, her hooded figure a dark silhouette against the rain-streaked windows, her eyes fixed on the stairs as she waited for the intruder to make their next move.

The sound of Jeane's footsteps echoed through the stairwell, each step a slow and measured warning, like a heartbeat in the darkness. The wood creaked under her weight, a sound that seemed to reverberate with a life of its own, as if the house itself was responding to her presence. The Force's grip on the iron poker tightened, her hand a solid weight in the darkness, ready to strike at a moment's notice.