The staircase felt narrower than it had moments before as the huge burglar and the calm burglar met halfway.
They stopped on the same step, bodies angled toward one another, neither willing to yield space. The huge burglar's breathing was slow but heavy, his broad chest rising as his eyes flicked over the calm burglar's face, searching for something—judgment, accusation, warning. The calm burglar offered nothing. His expression was smooth, unreadable, his gaze steady and unblinking.
No words were spoken.
The silence between them stretched, thick with tension, until it felt like the house itself was listening.
Finally, the huge burglar shifted his weight, brushing past with deliberate force as he continued down the stairs. His boots struck each step hard, as if daring anyone to challenge him.
The calm burglar didn't turn around. He resumed climbing, movements quiet and controlled, every step measured.
At the top of the stairs, the tall burglar stood outside the bedroom door. The earlier scuffle—raised voices, bodies brushing in the hallway—nagged at him. He hadn't heard crying, but unease crept in anyway. Disorder irritated him. Tonight was supposed to be clean, predictable. He told himself Jen was restrained, the twins asleep, nothing to worry about.
Still, he reached for the doorknob.
The door opened.
And his confidence shattered.
The zip tie, shoes and jacket lay on the floor.
Jen was at the window, hands gripping the frame as she forced it upward, her body half-turned toward the night. Moonlight spilled across her shoulders and arms, catching the angry red marks around her wrists. Freedom was inches away.
For a heartbeat, he simply stared.
"What are you doing?!" he shouted.
Jen spun, eyes wide—but he was already moving.
He crossed the room in a rush, grabbing a fistful of her hair and yanking hard. Pain exploded across her scalp as she cried out. Her hands slipped from the window frame as he dragged her backward and threw her down with brutal force.
The impact of the fall knocked the wind out of Jen. Pain flared across her back, shoulders, and wrists, but instinct overrode the shock. Her eyes darted around the dimly lit room, heart hammering in her chest. There—on the small table next to the bed—was the knife she had hidden earlier. Metal gleamed faintly under the moonlight.
She rolled to her side, fingers scraping against the floor, and seized it. Its cold, solid weight gave her a spark of courage. The tall burglar crouched above her, a twisted grin on his face, hand still gripping her hair. His fury radiated off him, thick and suffocating.
"You think you can run?" he sneered.
Pain exploded across her scalp as he yanked her upright again, but Jen twisted violently, wrenching free. He staggered slightly, surprised at her resistance.
Using the momentum, she slammed her hand holding the knife into his forearm. The blade bit through fabric and drew a line of blood. He hissed and recoiled, but the shock in his eyes quickly turned to anger.
He lunged at her again, swinging a fist toward her face. Jen ducked instinctively, rolling to the side as his knuckles scraped the floor where her head had been moments before. Glass from the fallen lamp crunched beneath his boot, shards slicing shallowly into his shoe, but he didn't stop