Round 10 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 drown out my breathing if I listen carefully enough to hear it over my own pounding pulse. The floorboards groan again, louder this time—a deliberate weight shift. I freeze mid-step, listening. The poker feels solid and reassuring in my hands, but I know it's no substitute for a gun. I take another step down, my foot finding the next tread with careful precision. Four more steps to the bottom. Three. Something moves at the corner of my vision—just a flicker of shadow near the back door, but my heart leaps into my throat anyway. I raise the poker higher, holding it ready for a swing. The ceramic ashtray on the side table catches my eye again, and I have to actively suppress the urge to look at it twice—I already know what I'll see: nothing out of place, no hidden weapons there. I complete the descent into the kitchen proper. The ground floor opens up around me—a narrow hall leads toward the front door, the back door is visible ten feet away with its deadbolt still engaged, and the stairwell rises behind me. The kitchen itself holds a long counter with cabinets above, a sink, and the drawer that contains knives. I've never felt more aware of every item in my own house. The flashlight batteries are in the junk drawer beside the sink—the thought occurs to me like a beacon—but moving across the open floor to reach them feels exposed. I can see the shadow of the back door's window from here, and if someone is outside watching, they can see the interior lights too. I don't want to announce my location any more than I already have. My eyes trace the route: sink, junk drawer, batteries, flashlight on the counter, darkness as a potential shield. The poker stays raised, my muscles starting to burn from holding the weight. I take three slow steps toward the sink, never looking away from the back door, and use my free hand to open the drawer. The contents rattle—nails, screws, spare lightbulbs—and then my fingers close around the battery pack. One battery slips from my grasp and clatters against the drawer bottom. I curse under my breath, freezing in place as I fumble to retrieve it. The sound was small but in the sudden silence feels like a gunshot.

I move through the kitchen in darkness, boots silent on the tile. The air carries that sharp scent now—gunpowder and something else, something rotten underneath. The sound came from downstairs, no question. I check the back door lock twice, then grip the iron poker tight. The flashlight stays off; let her eyes adjust to less than mine. The stairwell opens black before me. I descend slow, weight evenly distributed, each step testing for creak or give. The basement air is colder, heavier. I can feel it moving now, something alive down here with me. Not my imagination—this is work. I pause on the third step from the bottom, listening hard. Nothing moves above. She's down here, waiting. Good. Let her wait. I slide one handgun from its holster, keep the other at my back for balance. The poker goes in my left hand, heavy and familiar. Three more steps down. Two. One. Floor level now, back pressed to the wall beside the stairs. The basement stretches out—old furnace, water heater, workbench against the far wall, shadows everywhere. And there: a shape near the furnace, crouched low. I can just make it out in the dim light from the streetlamp outside the small high window. She hasn't seen me yet. Good angle. Three meters between us, clear line of fire if she moves toward the stairs. I could end this now—one shot, done. But the contract says face-to-face, up close and personal. Make it real. So I step forward into the open, gun raised, voice low and flat: "Stand up. Slow."