When they got back to the apartment building, Mark and Sally took the elevator up to their floor and stepped out once they reached their destination. The detective walked to the door with his niece and released her hand to reach into his pocket to look for his key so he could open the door, when all of a sudden, he though he heard a high-pitched, barking noise coming from the apartment next to his. Looking to his right, Mark saw that the door was open, as a small, fluffy white dog came out and started heading right towards his niece.

Sally's mouth fell open with a gasp as she saw the cute, little animal approach her. "A puppy!"

"Sally, don't….", Mark tried to tell her, but the child ignored him, as she knelt down on one knee and opened her palm to the dog so it could lick her fingers, coating them in saliva. This made Sally laugh, though the detective was more concerned about her getting bit. He didn't care if he had to draw his gun and shoot the animal. If she got hurt, he would damn well do it. Thankfully, nothing like that happened.

Much like his niece, Mark was curious to know whom the dog belonged to, and received his answer when a young, brunette woman came out into the hallway and was about to call out the name of her pet, until she saw it was busy getting acquainted with a little girl.

"I'm sorry, is she bothering you?" The young woman asked.

"No, it's all right", Mark answered, as he continued staring at the beautiful woman. She looked to be somewhere in her late twenties. Average height, maybe a hundred and fifteen pounds. Greenish-blue eyes, slender body. Just a normal, regular, girl-next-door type of woman. The fact that she wasn't wearing a wedding ring immediately indicated to the detective that she wasn't married and probably didn't have any children, unless they were back in her apartment.

Sally petted the head of the fluffy, white dog, who let out a whimper and rolled over to expose her stomach, hoping the child would scratch it as a sign of acceptance. The young woman smiled and approached her two neighbors, crouching down to first meet the little girl, who looked at her shyly.

"She wants you to scratch her tummy, like this", said the young woman, who demonstrated by using her right hand to perform the task the dog wanted somebody to do, whether it was her owner or the little girl. The fluffy-haired dog panted hard, letting her tongue stick out as she kicked her back leg.

"Why does she do that?" Sally wondered.

"She always does that", the young woman answered. "You want to try?"

Sally placed her right hand on the dog's stomach, rubbing it gently and seeing it kick its back leg for her.

"See? She likes it", the young woman said, looking up at the tall, dark and somewhat handsome man who stared at her with cold blue eyes that showed no emotion, let alone a sign of life, like his soul had been sucked out of his body. His aura was dark and troubled, holding onto so much pain and suffering.

The young woman looked at the little girl again and asked her, "What's your name, sweetie?"

"Sally Acomb. And this is my uncle, Mark."

"Detective Hoffman."

"Charmed. I'm Christine."

"New to the building?" Mark guessed.

"Yeah, I just moved in this morning", Christine answered, standing up so she could properly address the detective and meet his eye level, even though he towered over her a bit. "I guess that makes us neighbors."

"The last neighbor we had died in there, you know", Sally informed her. "It was an old lady who died of a heart attack."

"Sally, don't tell her that", Mark scolded.

"It's okay, she's just being honest", Christine assured him.

"Do you have any kids?" Sally asked, curiously.

"No, I'm sorry", Christine answered.

Sally lowered her head, looking disappointed.

"I know, but that doesn't mean I don't want any", said Christine. "Actually, my boyfriend and I talked about it before he went to Iraq, but before we could make a baby, he got deployed and had to go overseas."

"Do you miss him?" Sally wondered.

"Of course I miss him", said Christine.

"Come on, Sally", said Mark, opening the door to his apartment. "We have things to do today."

The little girl looked up at him and said, "No, we don't. We just did them."

The detective gave his niece a hard stare to let her know that what he said was a warning.

The child sighed, looking back at Christine to tell her, "I gotta go now. It was nice meeting you."

"It was nice to meet you, too, Sally. Detective Hoffman."

"You as well. Come on, Sal."

Once his niece entered the apartment, Mark stepped in and shut the door, locking it before he turned to look down at Sally. "Go to your room and stay there for a while", he ordered.

"What did I do?" The child questioned.

"Just go, I don't want to talk to you right now."

"Fine!"

Throwing her backpack on the floor, Sally marched straight to her room. Any other time, Mark would have told her to march back over and pick up whatever she threw on the ground, but he wasn't in the disciplining mood at the moment. The fact that his niece just mentioned to a new tenant that a person recently passed away in their new apartment felt inappropriate to the detective, as it reminded him of the night his sister was killed.

Later that evening, Mark knocked on Sally's door and told her to come sit down at the table with him so they could eat. Sally exited the room and followed her uncle into the kitchen. Their meal was leftovers that night. As per usual, conservation between them was minimal.

"You okay? You're kind of quiet", said Mark.

Sally shook her head and whispered softly, "It's nothing."

"Hey, whatever you have on your mind, just tell me. You know you can always tell me anything."

Sally looked to her left and asked her uncle, "What happened last night between you and Mr. Gibson?"

Mark looked at the child, arching a questioning eyebrow. "Excuse me?"

"At school today, Ethan said you gave his dad a hard time last night", Sally explained. "And Franklin said-"

"A crazy, homeless man took away his gun and almost killed him", Mark responded. "You tell Ethan I did him a favor by saving his father's life, and if he or anyone else tries to tell you otherwise, tell them to back off."

"Won't I get in trouble for saying that?" Sally asked.

"I doubt it, but if anybody says anything to you, I'll take care of it", Mark told her. "You've got four more weeks of school left and then you're off for three months. If things get too crazy until then, I'll switch you over to another school by next year."

"I don't wanna go to another school. That's not fair!"

"Yeah, well, life isn't fair! So get over it!"

Sally stared at him in stunned silence, setting her fork down next to her plate and pushing her chair back to excuse herself from the table.

"Where the hell do you think you're going?" Mark questioned.

"I'm going to take a bath", was the girl's answer, as she walked out of the kitchen, saying over her shoulder to him, "And I'm locking the door!"

Mark watched her leave and heard her slam the bathroom door, then he turned his attention back to his plate, pushing it aside before he leaned back and ran his hands through his hair, groaning in frustration.

Once he finished putting the food back in the fridge and washed the dishes, Mark went to the living room and turned on the TV to watch the news for a few minutes. More talk about crime and murder going on in the city, the war over in Iraq, and a report about four people who recently went missing. Nothing new, as usual. Deciding he heard enough, Mark turned off the TV and went to check on his niece. Before he could knock on the door and tell her that she had been in the bathroom long enough, Sally opened the door and looked at him, wearing nothing but a pink towel wrapped around her body.

"You didn't dry your hair", Mark noticed.

"I only have two hands, and I need both of them to keep the towel wrapped around me", Sally told him.

"If you don't dry your hair, you're going to get sick."

"Would you help me?"

"All right. Go to your room and wait there."

Sally did as she was told and walked out of the bathroom so Mark could enter and grab another towel from off the rack, then he went to his niece's room and sat down on the bed with her, throwing the second towel over her head so he could dry her hair for her. While he was doing this, the detective thought he heard his niece give a small chuckle underneath and allowed himself the tiniest of smiles.

"You like this?" Mark asked.

"Yeah, it feels good", Sally answered.

"It does?"

"Yeah."

Pulling the towel off her head, Mark checked to make sure Sally's hair was dry enough by running his fingers through her mess of dark strands. Her hair was still slightly dampened, but close enough. Then Mark stood up and walked out of the room, returning to the bathroom to dispose the towel in the laundry hamper, then he went back to Sally's room to look in her dresser for her pajamas and a pair of panties for her to wear.

"Stand up", Mark instructed, helping Sally dress herself to get her ready for bed. Dropping the towel, the little girl paid no mind to her temporary nudity, as her uncle soon got her into some warm clothes.

"Tomorrow's Friday, you know", Sally informed him, pulling her hair out from underneath the neckline of her pajama shirt.

"Yeah, I know", said Mark.

"Friday is a half day. That means I get out of school at noon."

"Why are you telling something I already know?"

"I just wanted to tell you again, just to make sure that you know."

"Is there something you planned out or wanted to do?"

"No."

"Sally, I don't have time for this nonsense. Whatever it is you're trying to tell me, just spit it out already."

"Why are you getting angry again?" Sally asked him.

Mark lowered his face, raising his right hand to pinch the space between his eyes, trying his best not to show his niece that he was getting impatience with her childish ramblings. Lowering his hand, the detective looked at her again and said, "Honey, I'm not angry. It's just been a long day, that's all."

"You tired?"

"Yes, I'm very tired. Now, come on. It's bedtime."

"It's not even nine o'clock yet", the little girl informed him, pointing to his right wrist. "Your watch says it's 8:35."

Mark checked his wrist to see for himself and found out she was right. "Good eye, Detective Acomb."

Sally smiled, looking proud of herself. "Thanks", she said.

Mark looked at her again, then he said, "But seriously, you need to go to sleep."

"Okay", said Sally, turning around as her uncle rose up and pulled back the blanket for her so she could settle down into her bed. Just as he finished tucking her in, the little girl pulled her left arm out from underneath the comforter and placed her small hand over her uncle's larger one.

"Uncle Mark, would you tell me a Sherlock story?" Sally asked him, politely.

Sitting down on the bed with her, Mark nodded and said, "Yeah, I guess we have enough time for one story. Which one did you have in mind?"

"I want to hear the one about the scary hound from Basket Hill."

"You mean Baskerville", Mark corrected her.

"Yeah, that one", the child confirmed.

"Not tonight", said Mark. "I don't want you to get scared and have nightmares again."

"I won't get scared, I promise. Please?"

The detective let out a quiet sigh, finding it hard to resist her plea. "Okay, I'll tell you the story", said Mark, brushing his niece's hair away from her face so he could look into her eyes while he told her the tale she wanted to hear. "A long time ago, there was an old man who lived in a mansion far out in the English countryside. The mansion resided on a large property near the moors, surrounded by trees. The old man's family lived there for many years, but what most people didn't know was that the family was cursed. One night, a servant was awakened by a howling noise and went out to the moors to investigate the disturbance. He discovered some footprints that led into the forest, and just as he came to a clearing, the footprints faded off, as if he had been following a ghost this whole time. Just then, he heard a growl, and as he turned around to see what was behind him, the servant was attacked by a large creature, like an animal."

"Was he attacked by a bear?" Sally questioned.

"No. Years later, a man named Charles Baskerville was found dead near the mansion. His friend, Dr. Mortimer, traveled to London to inform Detective Holmes that Charles had supposedly died from a heart attack, but his face was disfigured and there was a set of footprints next to his body that looked similar to those of a giant dog."

"Did Sherlock ever find the dog?" Sally asked.

"Why are you asking me that? You already know how the story ends", Mark stated.

"I know, but I like it when you tell me detective stories. They remind me of you."

All of a sudden, Mark felt a warm sensation in his chest hearing her say that, as if his niece somehow magically reached deep down into his soul to tug on his heartstrings. Sometimes, Sally said the most innocent and honest of things that came to her mind, another trait she inherited from her mother. Hearing her say this made him feel a bit sad though, as Mark thought back to when he was a teenager and would tell Angelina bedtime stories about beautiful princesses meeting their one true love and living happily ever after. That wasn't the case with Sally, because when Mark lost his sister, the real life fairytale ended and reality smashed over his head like a brick. He tried to stay more grounded with his niece and not fill her head with imaginary stories that would give her any unrealistic ideas. Not that he wanted to, but because he felt he had to.

"What happened next?" Sally asked him.

Mark blinked and thought for a minute, trying to remember where he left off. "Well, Sherlock was hesitant about taking the case at first, but with encouragement from his best friend, Dr. John Watson, he decided to travel with him to the Baskerville mansion in Dartmoor to try and solve the mystery."

"Why didn't he want to solve the case?"

"Because he thought it involved the supernatural. You know, like ghosts and spirits. Sherlock didn't believe in any of those things like Dr. Mortimer did. In fact, most of the locals thought that the dog who killed all those people was a demonic beast known as the Hound of Baskerville."

"What did the hound look like?"

"He was this big, black dog with fiery red eyes that was stalking the forest late at night. The strange thing was there were no claw marks or scratches on Charles' body, so his death was a mystery to Sherlock and John as to how he died. As it turned out, there was a distant relative who wanted the mansion for himself, so he tried to scare off the rightful heir by using a feral dog."

"That doesn't sound very nice", said Sally.

"Once again, you're right", Mark agreed. "But you know what happened to him?"

Sally shook her head. "Mm-mmm."

"He drowned. He knew he would get caught trying to kill innocent people, so he started running away, but he messed up and ended up drowning in the moors. Nobody ever saw or heard from him again. In the end, he got what he deserved. Sherlock and John put a stop to his evil plans and closed the case."

"Did they kill the hound, too?"

"Yes, they did."

"That's good."

Suddenly, the detective's watch beeped to let him know it was time to let his niece know it was bedtime.

"Nine o'clock already?" Sally asked him.

"Yeah. We'll talk in the morning, okay? Sleep tight, Sally."

"Good night."

Mark placed a kiss on her forehead, then stood up and headed for the door.

"Uncle Mark?" Sally asked, sitting up in bed.

Mark turned his head to look at her, keeping his hand on the door. "Yeah?"

"I love you", his niece told him.

The detective stared at her, trying to feel an emotional connection. "I love you, too. Go to sleep now."

With that said, Mark turned off the light, casting the room in complete darkness, and walked out his niece's room, closing the door behind him. Once he was gone, Sally looked to her right and picked up her mother's porcelain doll before turning over onto her right side before sending herself off to sleep.

Once he finished putting his niece to bed, Mark went to his room and turned on the light so he could see, then he went over to the closet and opened the door before attempting to take off his suit jacket, almost forgetting there was a book in his pocket. Mark removed the book and hung up his suit jacket in the closet, then closed the door and walked over to a bookshelf. He was an avid reader and owned a selection of assorted books. Most of them were detective fiction and mystery novels, some of which he retold as bedtime stories to his young niece, often alternating most of the darker elements to spare her any of the sensitive, gory or adult content. He never read her fairy tales.

Placing the book back onto the shelf where he had it before, Mark chose a different one to read for himself before he slept, selecting one he hadn't read in a long, long time - a collection of stories written by Edgar Allan Poe. The book was given to him years ago as a gift from Angelina. Opening a random page, as though fate had arranged it for him to stumble upon that particular tale, Mark stared at the words printed on the page as he read to himself a sentence from The Pit and the Pendulum -

"To the victims of its tyranny, there was the choice of death with its direst physical agonies, or death with its most hideous moral horrors. I had been reserved for the latter. By long suffering my nerves had been unstrung, until I trembled at the sound of my own voice, and had become in every respect a fitting subject for the species of torture which awaited me."

While he read this section, Mark couldn't help but notice some similarities between the description of the victim's fate with the ideology of Jigsaw.When being placed into a situation that involved possible bloodshed or dismemberment, no matter what the victim did, he or she was ultimately subjected to being scarred for life or meeting a gruesome death. The choice was all up to them. Somehow, it felt right for the detective to do this. He wanted to do this. It would take a few weeks if he planned it out right and set everything up, but he could do it. He thought about the consequences should anything go wrong, but he had to do it. He had to do this for Angelina, if not for himself. Sooner or later, Mark Hoffman would have his revenge.