The house was too quiet. No wind through the boards. No rats scratching in the walls. Just silence—heavy, suffocating.
Naomi stood in the living room, pistol heavy at her waist. She hadn't touched it since she pulled it from the hole, but its weight pressed against her ribs like a heartbeat.
Hollow sat at the table, cigarette burning low, his notebook open in front of him. His pen scratched steady across the page, line after line, like he was writing commandments.
"You stole from the floor," he said without looking up. His voice was calm, almost gentle.
Naomi's breath caught. Her hand twitched near her waist. "You saying that like you didn't expect it."
Hollow finally looked up, eyes hollow as always, unreadable. "I expected it the night you walked into this house. Pretty things don't survive here unless they turn sharp. You turned sharp."
Ezra stirred in the corner chair, shotgun across his lap, watching without a word. Silas sat on the basement steps, knees hugged to his chest, eyes wide like a child.
Naomi exhaled smoke, steadying herself. "I didn't take the money. Just the gun."
Hollow's smile was thin, bitter. "And that tells me more than if you'd taken it all. You don't want escape. You want control."
The silence after that was a noose.
Naomi's fingers brushed the grip of the pistol. "Maybe I'm tired of being the one watched. Maybe it's time somebody watched you."
Ezra stood, tension thick. "Boss—"
Hollow raised a hand, silencing him. His eyes never left Naomi. "So do it. Pull it. See if you're sharper than me."
Naomi's heart pounded. For a moment, the house itself seemed to lean in, the boards creaking under the weight of choice.
Her hand hovered on the pistol.
But she didn't draw. Not yet.
Instead, she whispered, "The floor's gonna open, Hollow. And when it does, you'll fall in first."
Hollow leaned back, cigarette ember glowing like a dying star. His grin was hollow as his name. "Then make sure you're not standing on it with me."
The house groaned, long and low, like it agreed with both of them.