Round 8 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 hide approaching footsteps from upstairs. Halfway down, I pause and listen. The creak came again, closer this time—definitely below me now. My heart hammers in my chest, but fear isn't useful here. Fear makes mistakes. I take another step, then another, until I reach the basement door at the bottom. It stands slightly ajar, dark inside. That's new—I always keep it closed and latched from this side. The smell is stronger here—gunpowder and something else, something wrong. I push the door open with my foot, poking the poker inside first, ready to strike. The basement is a mess of old furniture, stacked boxes, and the washing machine and dryer I rarely use. But what draws my eye is the far corner where the water heater hums. And leaning against it—a hunting rifle with a scope mounted on top. It wasn't there before. I'm certain of it. Someone put that there. My voice comes out low and steady despite the adrenaline flooding my system. "I can see you. I have a weapon too, and I know how to use it."

I hear the floorboards groan below—not old wood settling, not the house breathing, but weight and deliberate motion. The lamp casts short shadows that don't reach the dark corners. I smell gunpowder mixed with damp earth, a scent that doesn't belong in this room. The poker is heavy, solid, and the ceramic ashtray has sharp edges. I move to the kitchen doorway, back against the wall, and listen to the stairs creak one by one, slow and measured.