Round 9 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 any noise I make. My heart hammers in my chest, but I keep moving, one deliberate step after another. This is my house. I know every inch of it.

The creaking sound came again, deeper this time—wood shifting under weight below ground. Rain hammered the windows like fists on glass. The lamp's glow cast a warm circle that felt suddenly too small against the darkness pressing in from all sides. Something moved down the hall toward the kitchen. Just a shadow, just the rain-light playing tricks, but it had shape. Human shape. Moving slow and deliberate. Jeane stood frozen, iron poker held tight in both hands, knife tucked against her wrist. The gun lay on the side table, four feet away, but reaching for it meant letting go of the poker, and that felt like leaving herself unarmed. The creaking stopped. Silence filled the void left by its absence, thick and waiting. Footsteps now—soft but distinct—moving through the kitchen. A drawer opened, closed. Silverware clinking against ceramic. Whoever was down there wasn't trying to be quiet anymore. They knew she was here. Knew she had heard them. Jeane's breathing came too loud in her own ears. She needed to move. Needed to find a better position. But every option felt wrong—the kitchen meant losing the poker for the gun, the stairs meant going up into a trap, the front door meant running blind into the storm and whoever might be waiting outside. The footsteps stopped again. A shadow crossed the hall mouth, paused there, solid and real this time. A figure in dark clothes stood framed by the kitchen doorway, holding something long and metal that caught the lamp light—a flashlight, or maybe a weapon. They weren't carrying a gun, at least not openly, which meant they were confident enough to do without one or smart enough to know guns made noise and this game was better played quiet. The figure stepped forward into the room, moving with that same deliberate, measured pace, and Jeane saw her face clearly for the first time: young woman, dark hair pulled back, expression unreadable in the dim light but something cold there too, something calculating behind those eyes that made Jeane's stomach twist with recognition—this wasn't a robber or a drunk stumbling home wrong. This was someone who knew exactly what they were doing here. The woman stopped at the edge of the lamp's circle and tilted her head slightly, as if listening. Waiting for Jeane to make the first move. Waiting to see which weapon she'd choose—the poker or the gun—and planning accordingly. Jeane's fingers tightened on the poker handle until her knuckles turned white.