Round 8

The rain-soaked night cast an inky veil over the deserted house, its windows like empty eyes staring back at the darkness. In the kitchen, a single light flickered, casting eerie shadows on the walls. The Force stood motionless, her hooded form a dark silhouette against the rain-streaked glass, her eyes fixed on the stairs as she waited for the intruder to make their next move. Her hand rested on the iron poker, its weight a reassuring presence in the darkness.

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. She paused halfway down, listening intently, her heart hammering in her chest. The creak came again, closer this time—definitely below her now. Her eyes narrowed, her grip on the poker tightening, but she remained frozen, unsure whether to descend into the darkness or wait for the intruder to emerge.