The living room was pitch-black, with only a faint streetlight outside seeping through the gaps in the curtains, casting dim shadows on the floor.
Zhou Qingfeng relaxed his breathing, his back against the second-floor wall, the M9 pistol in his hand cold and heavy. The gun was loaded, his finger lightly touching the trigger guard, and his thumb silently flicked off the safety.
Soft footsteps came from downstairs, like some kind of beast prowling in the darkness.
Even though the person deliberately lightened their steps, the old house's environment wasn't soundproof, betraying them mercilessly.
The dry wooden boards creaked slightly, as if whispering warnings, signaling the presence of an intruder.
Each sound pierced Zhou Qingfeng's eardrum like a needle, preparing him in advance.
"Not Julia, and not Selena," he quickly ruled out the two possibilities in his mind.
Julia's steps were always as light as a cat's, while Selena habitually dragged her feet, her pace lazy.
