The house smells like dust and old varnish, like a place that stopped being lived in weeks ago. The cupboard under your hands is empty except for a single can with no label. Your fingers are just closing around it when the click happens — metal on metal, unmistakable.

Don't move.

The voice is soft enough that you almost miss the tremor underneath. Almost. It's pitched too high, like someone trying to sound in control and failing at the edges.

You freeze. The can rolls away from your hand and hits the floor with a hollow sound that seems too loud.

Behind you, there's breathing — quick, shallow. Not the rhythm of someone who does this often. The gun barrel is probably shaking. You can't see it, but you can hear it in the way she speaks again.

I mean it. Hands where I can see them.

The floorboards creak as she shifts her weight. A nervous shuffle, not a tactical reposition. The house settles around the silence, wood groaning somewhere in another room.

You can smell something faint now — sweat, maybe fear, and under that the chemical tang of gun oil. She's close enough that you'd hear her swallow if she did.

Who are you? Why are you here?

The questions come too fast, tripping over each other. She's not waiting for answers so much as buying herself time to figure out what to do with you. The tremor in her voice is worse now, obvious enough that she probably knows you can hear it.

The light through the window has that late-afternoon quality, orange and tired. It catches on dust motes between you and the cupboard. Everything feels suspended — the moment before something breaks or someone gives in.

She takes a breath. It hitches in the middle.

Turn around. Slow.