Mark Hoffman

"Hoffman," Fisk had walked into his office while he was lost in thought. He had been daydreaming of that night, at the moment the splat of Baxter's intestines slapped to the floor. "We've got a body. Looks like another Jigsaw victim."

He blinked. It hadn't even been twenty four hours since Baxter died. It couldn't be him. Could it?

Fisk looked concerned at his hesitation. "You up for this?"

"Yeah." He tossed the folder he had been clutching on his desk and followed Fisk out.

If it was Baxter, he would need to play it cool. He wasn't worried about Fisk, who wasn't the sharpest detective in the precinct, which was why he was one of Mark's favorites these days. But the others - they would notice if he was acting off. Especially Will.

When they pulled up to the warehouse, Mark's stomach felt like moths were cage fighting inside. "This is one of Rosello's," he stated, as if surprised.

"Huh. Weird coincidence." Fisk killed the engine.

He saw Will and Kerry at the entrance, in a heated discussion. Great. He hadn't anticipated she would be back from San Diego so soon. Seeing her at Angie's resting place had been unexpected - but surprisingly welcome. He had forgotten how easily seeing her face could bring a glimmer of warmth. Only recently did that feeling return instead of anger.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder. The saying had some merit. It seemed their break had helped soothe his resentment towards her. Now that he had taken Baxter's fate in his hands, reclaimed control, now he could heal. They could heal.

Standing at the doorway, hugging herself, she cast him a fleeting glance that was stained with concern. Doe-eyes. He wanted to say something to her but he looked away.

Not here. She would complicate things, as she was prone to do, and he wasn't in the mood. Not when he had to act shocked seeing Angie's murderer dead.

He expected her to accost him as he crossed the yellow tape. He snuck a glance, curious at her subverting his expectation.

Kerry had her hand on Will's shoulder, consoling her. She locked eyes with him, pursing her lips and shaking her head.

She's acting like I'm the bad guy, he fumed as he followed Fisk inside.

"Victim is a typical murder convict who served five years and was just released last month." Fisk did not know what Kerry and Will obviously had.

Mark would have been annoyed at Fisk's poor attention to detail - if it was just any other case. But at this moment, he was grateful. Of all the detectives to investigate his crime, it was a godsend the man for the job had been this guy.

All around, forensics took their pictures and dusted for fingerprints. Mark was confident they would not find so much as a shoeprint. So why was his heart thundering in his ears and his fingers twitched at his sides.

As soon as he saw Baxter's gray face, he announced, "I know him. His name is Seth Baxter. My sister's ex-boyfriend." He tried to look down and sound grave. The flies hadn't even gotten to him yet. He looked too fresh for Hoffman's liking.

Fisk had gone quiet. "This is the guy that murdered your sister?"

Mark nodded, letting the authentic pain show in his frown. "He was sentenced to twenty five years. Reduced to five on a technicality."

Fisk's silence was thick with the knowledge that everyone in their department whispered about. It had been Will Maddox, his partner and former lover, who had been that technicality. "Well then I'd say justice was served."

Mark kept his mouth pressed tight into a frown while he squinted to suppress the grin that itched his cheeks.

"That's dangerous talk," footsteps clicked behind them, Tapp's low voice echoed off the concrete. "I knew it was too quiet for too long," he muttered while looking up at the pendulum, eyebrow raised. "And every time it's always topping the last. We got ourselves a vigilante serial killer who fancies himself a mad scientist. Damn."

The sharp high pitched wisp of the body bag zipper robbed Mark's attention. He watched the pathologist seal Baxter up while Sing strode across the room to admire the peephole.

"Hey, Hoffman, you wouldn't happen to have the Jigsaw Killer on payroll, would you?" Sing was joking but there was a shadow of inquiry laced in his words.

Tapp silently observed.

"Obviously, I'm thrilled my sister's murderer is no longer a threat to the public. But I don't take pleasure in seeing her memory being tarnished by this." The words rolled off his tongue, the way he rehearsed it.

Tapp was nodding. "This is one of the first victims I'm not particularly sad about. None of us are. But we've got to treat this like every other victim. A human life was ended here. Promise you keep that in mind, and you have my support being on the case."

This surprised Mark. Tapp walked up, hands in his pockets. "I know you'll be good help."

He felt triumph fill his chest. He was in the clear. "I'll get the report from the coroner, then."

"There's just one thing," Tapp's voice stopped him in his tracks.

"Which is?"

"This property. You know anything about it?"

He knew what Tapp was hinting at. "It's Toni Rosello's." He remained calm. "You think it's more than a coincidence?"

Sing nodded. "Yeah, and I wonder what the connection is between Angelina and Jigsaw."

He flared his nostrils. "Nothing, likely. Jigsaw probably just went through public record on murderers who got out early. Or it's an old connection with Baxter."

"Yeah. Weird it's all connected to you, though," Tapp, despite earlier seeming friendly, eyed him like an insect he was studying.

"With the current kill count, it's only due time until more of us find ourselves standing over a body we're connected to," Sing interjected, "That is, unless we stop this guy fast. And from where I'm standing we need all the hands we can get right now. Matthews is out. And Will just now refused to join."

This, made Hoffman raise an eyebrow. "Why?"

Sing shrugged. "I have a couple of guesses. She just said she's busy."

If it wasn't perfectly aligning with what Hoffman wanted, he would have been insulted. "But she and Ange were close."

"I hear," Tapp leaned over Baxter's belly to squint at the jigsaw-shaped red flesh. "Kerry is pissed. But Will won't budge. You saw them bickering out there. This." Tapp looked upwards, dark eyes heavy, "scares me. He's smart. And refining his method."

"Let's just hope there's a Rosello link," Kerry announced herself as she walked in, clicking her cell phone shut. "We're pulling up the old case files. Making sure Jigsaw doesn't make a habit out of using Rosello's properties for where he plays his sick little games. Oh, and Maddox went home."

Mark studied her face, searching for any hint as to why. She stared cooly back. "She says she won't compromise the investigation and will comply with being interviewed to clear herself as a potential suspect. She wishes us luck."

Tapp sniffed loudly and nodded. "A shame. Maybe she'll change her mind soon. And how about the FBI?"

"They're finishing the profile and will brief us next week. They're pretty swamped though, so they won't be in-person. Perez said she can consult. Strahm's MIA. And Hoffman," Kerry got close to him, lowering her voice, "I need you to come back and answer some questions before you can poke around anymore."

It was protocol. He did, after all, have motive. Understandable. Hoffman wasn't worried, not when Tapp and Sing had basically rolled the red carpet for him to join the investigation. "Then let's get it done."

John Kramer

John enjoyed reading the paper first thing in the morning these days. He had a ritual where he would brew ginseng tea and peruse the pages to read the latest on the Jigsaw Killer, as the media loved to call him.

But this particular morning, his tea had gone cold and bitter before he had a chance to drink.

He was fuming as he glared along the black text, wondering if this was some desperate trick by the police.

Jigsaw Killer Strikes Again by Pamela Jenkins

The city continues to cower as the Jigsaw killer terrorizes those he claims to 'take life for granted'. The latest victim is Seth Baxter, a resident of Bronzeville East, found in the southside last night by two urban explorers. Baxter was found in a gruesome state, in an apparent 'game' involving a pendulum that sliced him across the lower stomach. Police are completely baffled and without any leads on the Jigsaw Killer…

The details were specific. The tabloid even had a picture of the pendulum. John narrowed his eyes. What an overly grandiose choice. Whoever it was, certainly thought highly of himself. Despite his reservations that this copycat was some low class cheap imitation, he admitted that there must have been some skill for the developer to have produced a functional trap of that magnitude.

Though he abhorred being given credit for work that was not his, he believed this was a golden opportunity. Someone admired his work. He smiled. This was what he needed, now, more than ever.

He suppressed the urge to cough. He was growing weaker by the day.

He needed to gain more information. Whoever did this somehow fooled the police. John knew details of his latest traps had been withheld from the public. Whoever was able to fool law enforcement had to have intimate knowledge of his methods, otherwise, it was likely they would have announced a copycat had emerged.

John deduced it had to be someone from the inside. An officer of the law, likely. And someone intimate with the case - had to be a homicide detective.

He took the paper and went to the computer, performing an internet search for Seth Baxter.

The first article, talking of Seth Baxter's conviction for the murder of a young girl, led him down the trail of a tragic story. Angelina Acomb. A Gold Star Wife. A chef with a promising future, robbed of it one fateful night. And then, he knew who he was looking for, from a single picture appearing in an old article.

Detective Mark Hoffman, as he lays his sister to rest after her murder.

John studied the photograph. He could see pain in the boy's eyes, and a hardened resolve as he clutched his hands in front of him, staring at the camera.

He would need to follow him. Verify that his theory was correct. But John's hunches were never wrong. It used to drive Jill insane, when he would predict whether a clinic donor would back out last minute or the many times he would know just what she was feeling and thinking.

"I'm married to a psychic," she would say.

John felt a coughing fit rise up and he choked out his lungs for a long minute.

If this copycat is this Mark Hoffman, I can use him.

But he would need to plan. Carefully. He would need to sneak around and learn this man's routines. His vices. His secrets. He would learn of those he loved the most. And the things he cared about. And John would use them to keep him close.

He didn't know this man but he could sense that this was a kindred spirit. A fellow soul desperate for justice.

"So you lost your sister. A shame. She sounded like a lovely woman," he whispered as he studied the obituary of Angelina Hoffman. Survived by a brother and friends. No one else.

"No other family?" Pity came over him. Though the details weren't clear, he could read between the lines. Domestic dispute. Drug abuse suspected. Another victim to the corruption of the city and the predation of those who have yet to truly understand that life was precious.

For the first time since his diagnosis, John felt hope.

Wilhelmina Maddox

She kept herself busy with as many non-Jigsaw homicides as she could fit on her desk. Sometimes, Ally would knock on her door, coming up with a new sales pitch to convince her to come join the investigation.

She just couldn't. Not when Mark was involved. She understood everyone else's openness to him joining. And she knew she was a hypocrite for trying to stand with the code of ethics she had swept aside back when she helped convict Seth Baxter. But this feeling in her heart that there was something deeply wrong if she got involved made her keep a wide berth.

She blamed it on the post-break-up blues.

Damn, she wanted a cigarette, but she had only recently quit again. She intended to stick to it this time. She had a lot she wanted to change.

Lately, her mind was caught on imagining a future where she was married and had a kid or two. It was a funny thought, something that never crossed her mind before, but it had burrowed into her subconscious and constantly popped into her ruminations at random intervals.

Maybe it was because Peter Strahm had been rather aggressive with courting her lately. She admitted, she liked the attention.

He called her every Thursday evening and they would talk for two hours on how their days had gone. Boring stuff. Perfectly normal. Complaints about work. Inflation. The strong desire to take a vacation somewhere sunny with a beach. And though these conversations would have bored her to tears a decade ago, these days she found herself oddly comforted by them.

At first, they were exclusively casual friendly talks. But lately, the conversations became thick with suggestions, honeyed words and warmth that she found a thirst for.

She had at first thought it was nothing serious. But somehow, the topics ranged from the latest investigations into dreams of finding someone to spend the rest of their lives with. Sprinkled in were updates on Peter's attempts to get a hold of her mother's murder case file. So far, the paperwork had been routed but they were waiting for San Diego city officials to release them.

She would find herself crying randomly afterwards, overwhelmed with joy that a man like Peter would be so interested in helping her - among other things - while admitting that his one flaw was that he was just not Mark Hoffman. And no matter how hard she tried to lie to herself that it was not a flaw but a perk, she just couldn't seem to believe herself.

She knew time would heal that one pain and she looked forward to it.

Maybe Peter was more of a rebound, but at least he was a wholesome one.

When she arrived at work one Monday, slammed with four fresh homicide cases, and before she even got her first cup of coffee in, she had slumped in her office chair in defeat.

At lunch, loud jeers and whistling had her go and check the commotion outside.

A delivery boy walked in, cheeks pink, holding out a large vase of thick red roses. "Will? Maddox?" The boy looked uncomfortable with the throngs of cops all leering at him. "Oh, I thought you were a guy." Relief reflected in his face.

"That's me," she was hesitant, the burning memory of the last time flowers were delivered to her at work branded in her recollection. She didn't want to touch the vase. She warily looked for spiders.

"These are for you. I need you to sign for it. Please. I'm running late." The urgency in his voice had her lead him into her office. Not one to let a kid suffer, she signed and thanked him, closing the door to confront the gift in peace.

She pulled the card from the vase, the printed lettering read, "Hope these brighten your week, beautiful. I miss you. -Peter"

Her cheeks flushed, feeling indeed happier because of them.

Mark Hoffman

It had been five weeks since Seth Baxter's body was found. Five long, painful weeks. The first week had gone quick and smooth. The alibi Matthews had provided cleared, without so much as a follow up. His ex-wife kept raining hell over him and Eric Matthews had too much to care about to even question why he had to provide one in the first place.

The second week was when things started going wrong. It wasn't obvious but Mark had felt as though someone was watching him. His standard routine of going to work was usually quite consistent. But when he found his office door shut - the doorknob latch bolt found to not be firmly in its seat but instead just pressing the strike - the hairs on the back of his neck had stood up.

It was an old door and Mark usually had to put some muscle when he pulled it securely shut. Someone had been in his office over the weekend. He tried to shrug it off as that of the janitor. He normally left it unlocked, but the usual guy who emptied his trash knew about the tricky door jam.

New guy, he assured himself as he went about his day. He quickly forgot about it.

Nothing came up again until the third week. Every day after work, he would go to Larry's and drink until either the guy cut him off or he found it in him to finally head back to his quiet apartment.

It was one particular night he had felt especially sorry for himself. Now that Baxter was dead and no one was the wiser, he was back to square one in his pitiful life. Only now, no buxom redhead would sit in the barstool beside him, quietly chewing on salty fries while reading pistol magazines and quipping about the poor performance of their city's baseball team. Instead, his company was the squeaking of glass on greasy rags, the occasional click of a pool cue on bakelite balls, and the phlegm-scratchy coughs of fellow lonesome patrons.

Larry had approached him, silently wiping a pint glass, nodding his chin at something behind Mark. "New guy eying you," he softly muttered before turning to a stumbling drunk who was waving at him for another drink.

Mark slowly cocked his head to catch a glimpse in his periphery. Against the booths across the bar, sat a single man. His head was bowed, wearing a baseball cap and a hoodie, not looking out of place but unfamiliar to the usual regulars Mark recognized. Mark was already six drinks in the last hour and this was around the time his vision became hazy around the edges. He couldn't distinguish the man's features. He thought the guy looked like a bird, maybe. But he blinked and couldn't quite make out anything else.

He was too drunk to care. He doubted it was anything more than the usual paranoia. He turned back and took another shot, wanting to finish the fifth of Jameson before Larry's conscience decided he had enough tonight. He had stumbled to his bed and managed to wake up the next day, as usual.

It was the fourth week when he began to suspect someone was targeting him. When he came back home, drunk as a skunk, and fell onto his couch to catch his breath, he thought he had heard a scrape somewhere.

He had immediately jumped to his feet, balance off, and gun in hand, eyes darting around his living room with frenzied panic that someone was in his apartment and shouldn't be. "Will?" He slurred, half-hoping and half-expecting it was her and not some idiot he had to take down. He had cleared his bedroom, closets, bathroom, and had found nothing amiss.

He remembered Angie used to read him one particular Poe story that these days seemed like a prophecy. The Tell-Tale Heart. But it wasn't Baxter's heart pounding in the floor boards, it was his own and the damn thing was in his skull, pulsing and throbbing and giving him one hell of a headache.

He had put the gun down, clutching his temple and sitting back down on the couch to wait out the pain. Maybe he should quit drinking. But he had nothing better to do these days. His eyes landed on his landline and an urge to call the number he still had memorized coming and going. But he resisted because he wasn't sure exactly what he could say to her that could fix everything he had said and done.

Maybe it was the guilt that was getting to him. Maybe he wasn't a complete asshole. He had done what any man would, given the circumstances. His little sister was gone. He had made sure the man responsible was gone, too. But now what? Every day he thought about what could possibly get him caught. He went through every moment. Fingerprints? No. Alibi still checked out, even if Matthews ever took some time to think about the timelines lining up. They could recover hair but Mark was smart. He made sure Fisk kept him on the case. If anything popped up, he could easily forge findings or make the evidence simply 'disappear'. There was no physical evidence that would get him. He was safe.

So why did he feel so damn afraid?

He couldn't sleep that night. He didn't sleep well for the rest of that week.

The fifth week had hit him hard like a freight train. He had been sour from the poor sleep. Even booze wouldn't put him down now. And with the constant shakes and headache hammering his forehead, the commotion outside his office now was making him want to puke.

He had heard the boys outside his office hooting and hollering loud enough to motivate him to get off his ass and investigate. Poking his head out of his office, he paused when he saw Will receiving a ridiculously large bundle of flowers with a smile.

He went back inside. He was surprised it had taken this long for someone to make a move on her. He figured the brash and outlandish gesture would get shut down immediately.

Her smile stayed in the back of his mind, though. Did she like them that much? Who sent them?

He grabbed a document and stared at the words but the more he tried to shut it out the louder these thoughts poured over. She never smiled like that when I gave her flowers.

He hadn't spoken to her in weeks. The two of them were practically strangers, now. How long is she going to keep avoiding me like this? He wondered. We're still partners, after all.

Come to think of it, he wasn't sure when in their many years together he had ever gotten her flowers.

Women like flowers. Nothing new.

But the fact that it was Will receiving them was. He remembered the day Rosello had left black widows hidden in a bouquet on her desk when they were younger. This made him jump to his feet, suddenly overcome with a racing heart and breathing hard. Was this another one of those? But he stopped himself. She's a big girl, she can take care of herself.

He needed coffee. He was just hung over. Pathetic. Leaving his office, he paused when he reached Will's closed door, her laughter distinct through the thin plaster. The breakroom was just another few doors down. But his feet were cemented to the floor.

"Pete, you didn't have to do this. You're making me blush."

Pete? He instantly knew who it was. Peter Strahm. That rat-faced twerp.

He couldn't help but linger, letting his ear inch closer to the door frame.

"Well, I miss you too. Maybe I'll fly down there sometime. I have the vacation days."

"You accidentally glue your ear to the door, Hoffman?" Kerry's sharp voice made him jump.

He turned, feeling embarrassed and angry at being caught. He didn't know what to say.

Kerry, looking smooth in her suit and clutching another folder with the familiar 'Jigsaw' label, handing it to him. "Latest victim. We need you to head to the crime scene."

He took the file, his ears burning in embarrassment. Kerry was staring, a slight smirk on her mouth. She nodded to the muffled laugh. "She's had a few guys ask her out. She turned them all down, waiting for you. And you just kept pushing her away…" She paused and pressed her lips together, shaking her head. "I wouldn't meddle." She gave him a side glance. "Just know, she's been having the worst time because of you. You needed to punish her, and I get that. But you went too far. And after her dad -," Kerry sounded truly concerned. "She's changed a lot these past few months. And I can see it in your eye, like I've seen in all the men who insisted this would be the last time… so don't even think about it. Don't string her along." She stepped forward, and for the first time he saw cool Allison Kerry look mean and ready to scratch, "Break her heart again and I'll break your nose." She spun and left, her heels clicking off the linoleum.

Mark couldn't help but sneer, unimpressed by her threat. Bitch. He went to return to his office but glanced one more time at Will's door, the knob just within reach. He wanted to open it, just one more time, but then he heard Will's voice, happy.

"I've got to go, Pete, loads to do. Tell Lindsay I said 'hi'." A long pause. "Oh, wow. Um. I… sorry, kind of need to go. I'll talk to you later, okay? Bye."

He could imagine what had gone down in that conversation and he felt the rush of triumph. Did he tell her he loved her? Something along that line? He returned to his office and shut the door, sitting at his desk and contemplated.

Will wouldn't have waited for him forever. He knew that. So why did he feel so disappointed?

But of all the men out there, she chose Strahm? That scumbag wasn't good enough for her. He wondered if there was a way - even a small chance - he could have her laugh with him like that again. Maybe I should buy her some flowers sometime?

He sighed, not able to come up with any creative romantic gesture. He could conjure up a million ways to end Seth Baxter but when he tried to think of what would get Will Maddox to take him back, his mind went blank.

If he could go back in time and stop himself from pushing her away so forcefully - he would.

Still in the trash can, visible through the mesh despite the overflowing crumpled papers and fast-food wrappers, glinted the blue metallic wrapping of Will's birthday gift to him. He dug it out.

The box was bent and there was some mayonnaise smeared over the gloss.

He opened it.

It was a brown bottle of cologne. It looked expensive.

He felt himself smile, his headache weakening.. He uncapped the bottle and smelled the nozzle, spraying it in the air and closing his eyes. What scent did she think suited him? He couldn't make out the specifics. It smelled good, though. All the stress he had been carrying in his neck and shoulders lightened. For just a second, he could relax. She always had a way of doing that to him. Even now, without her being in the room or acknowledging his existence, her actions brought light in his darkness. He recapped the gift and put it in his top drawer.

I should get some work done.

He went to flip through the folder on his desk. As he turned pages, a manila folder with 'DETECTIVE HOFFMAN' caught his eye. What's this? He opened it.

I KNOW WHO YOU ARE.

His blood froze in his veins. He looked up, around, wondering if this was a prank. But he knew it wasn't wise to dismiss this.

I knew it. Someone knows. He could feel the cold metal of handcuffs on his wrist and practically smelled the piss and grease of prison. No. He needed to deal with this, fast.

He instantly thought of Tapp. Sing. If it is a prank, it could be Matthews, but Matthews has been even worse off since his son got arrested for shoplifting. He's too pissed these days to be funny. Kerry was too busy taking herself seriously to pull a stunt like this. And Will? Will would never. The penmanship wasn't even close to her soft and rounded handwriting.

It's the Jigsaw Killer, a soft voice whispered in his ear, only heard by his mind and filling him with adrenaline. He knows what you've done.

He got to his feet, suddenly feeling like the office walls were closing in on him. He needed fresh air. He needed to get home and regroup.

He'd take the rest of the day off. Yeah, that's what I need. He couldn't remember the last time he had given himself a break. He folded the note, his fingers slick with sweat, and rushed out.

"Hey, Hoffman," Fisk called out, "got a minute?"

"Can't." He avoided his eyes and wiped his temple. "I think I'm coming down with something."

"Oh, yeah, you look like you're burning up. Go home. I'll let Grissom know."

He was glad to have Fisk.

He made it to his car, driving extra carefully, wondering if someone was tailing him. Paranoia tickled his ears and made him look in the rearview mirror every few seconds.

When he got into his apartment building, he paused at the foyer. The place looked unchanged. Dirty. Desolate.

Get the mail. Maybe there's another message. He strode to his mailbox, finding only the typical pizza coupons, political ads, and junk mail littering the area. One brochure from an addict clinic stuck out. Homeward Bound. Cherish Your Life. He tossed the waste of ink back onto the mail counter and leaned against it, telling himself that the reason he felt so on edge was because he was letting his drinking get out of hand.

No one knows I killed Baxter. How could they? I'm worried about nothing. I covered my tracks. He figured he was just letting the stress pile on him and the recent revelation of Will's romantic relationship was breaking the camel's back. It's because that piece of shit's trying to make a move on my woman. Thinking of her helped ease the inexplicable anxiety he was feeling. Maybe I should call her. Yeah. Ask her to coffee. Just get to fixing things.

He turned a corner and almost collided into some punk teen, the girl's headphones blaring loudly as she put a cigarette between her lips without so much as an 'excuse me'. He looked after her, disgusted. Kids these days have no respect.

But so far, it was the usual mundane headaches to get to his room. Nothing out of the ordinary.

When the elevator's 'OUT OF ORDER' appeared he rolled his eyes and sighed, stabbing the up button and waiting for the only free car to arrive.

He heard the distant cry of a woman. "STOP!" He whirled towards the source, taking his gun out. He knew his nerves were fried. But he wasn't taking any changes.

It was to the stairs. He expected someone to be lurking behind the door, waiting to pounce on him. He crept close, his heart thudding in his ears, when the door burst open and a dog barked, being held back by a screaming woman.

Noises melded together, screams and barking and the sound of his own heart exploded and scattered his thought processes like a house of cards.

"Come on! Pee Wee! Come on!" The woman held back the german shepherd while grumbling about the gun but thankfully, raised no further complaints as she left Mark to his thundering pulse.

"Fucking Pee Wee. Shit," he whispered to himself before he reached the elevators.

He returned to waiting at the doors. At the ding he stepped forward.

"Do you mind?" A hostile woman glared hatefully up at him. He stepped back as the crowd of people walked by, their eyes and smirks adding to his bad day.

An old man remained, nodding at him as he entered.

"Going up?" he asked, assuming the man had gotten caught going down because of the single car.

"Yes, thank you," the man whispered.

Mark entered and pressed his floor level and the doors closed. That awkward silence that followed when entering a confined space with a complete stranger followed. Mark looked up to admire how the buttons progressed with every ding.

He looked at the button panel and paused, noting that only his floor was selected.

This guy wasn't one of his neighbors.

That uneasiness returned in his gut. Trying to be slow and subtle he turned his head. In the corner of his eye, he noticed his fellow rider's hand.

He was wearing black leather gloves.

He went for his gun. "What floor are you going to?"

Feeling the wind rush over his face and the sudden skewer of his neck made him flinch and cry out in pain.

But he pushed back. He growled and mustered all his strength to fight whatever it was that hurt his neck and push him to the floor. He tried to roar. Something cool rushed into him, and then everything became warm. Nausea and the need to sleep made him heavy.

His vision blurred and soon it was all fading to black. "I think we're both going to the same place," the man's words softly echoed into oblivion.