Round 7 Transcript

I descend the kitchen stairs one careful step at a time, the iron poker held ready in both hands. The smell of mold and gunpowder grows stronger as I go down. The stairwell is narrow—I can barely turn sideways—and anyone waiting at the bottom has the advantage. Rain beats on the window behind me, a sound that might cover my breathing or my heartbeat. The wood creaks under each footfall—there's no silent way to do this. My own shadow stretches out ahead of me in the weak kitchen light from above, a dark shape against the darkness below.

I heard it again—the creak from downstairs. Not the house settling; this was deliberate movement, slow and measured. I grabbed the iron poker from by the fireplace, its weight solid in my hand. The kitchen knives were close too, sharp and practical. Rain hammered the windows, turning the glass into black mirrors. No lights on upstairs—better to blend with the darkness than announce my position. Down there was someone who didn't belong, and I needed to know why they were here, what they wanted. The flashlight stayed off for now; light is a beacon, a target. Instead, I moved toward the stairwell, each step calculated, silent. Let them think the house is empty, that they're alone.