Chapter 1: The Puzzle Begins
It was a quiet evening in Washington, D.C., but for Officer Professor Detective Doctor Alex Cross, silence was rarely peaceful. It was just the calm before the storm. The streets buzzed with a low hum of activity as cars passed under the flickering streetlights, but Cross's attention was fixed on the glowing screen in his office. Papers scattered across his desk, outlining the complex web of connections he had been tracing for weeks. This was no ordinary case; it felt darker, more personal.
Alex Cross, known for his brilliance in criminology, forensic psychology, and an unyielding drive for justice, was nothing short of a legend in law enforcement. His accolades piled up higher than most men's careers—doctorates in psychology and criminology, a faculty position at Georgetown, and his decades-long tenure with the Washington Metropolitan Police Department. Yet, despite his long list of titles, people simply called him Cross.
But tonight, the man behind the titles felt a different kind of weight on his shoulders. There was a haunting stillness in his mind, a quiet moment he dreaded more than any criminal mastermind he had ever faced. It was a reminder of what he had lost.
As Cross sifted through the case files, the memories of his mother, Madea, came rushing back—the larger-than-life woman who raised him with a mix of tough love and a no-nonsense attitude. She was gone now, but not completely. Her influence, her voice, her humor—they all lingered. Sometimes too close for comfort.
Cross sighed, rubbing his temples as he looked at the latest photograph from the crime scene. A message was scrawled in blood-red ink: "I want to play a game." The signature, a twisted play on the infamous Jigsaw killer from the Saw movies, was signed by someone new, someone far more dangerous: Nigsaw. The media hadn't caught onto the name yet, but in the dark underworld of Washington's criminal elite, Nigsaw was a shadowy figure whose traps were as elaborate as they were lethal. And now, Cross had been chosen to play.
The tension in the room thickened as his mind raced through possibilities, analyzing patterns and trying to make sense of the madness. That's when it happened.
A flicker. A whisper.
"What kinda fool writes in blood? And ink at that. You ain't impressin' nobody but your mama."
Cross froze, his breath catching in his throat. The voice was unmistakable. It was her—Madea—and she was back. The moment he dreaded, the trigger he feared, had come. His grip on the pen tightened as he fought for control. His mind was a battlefield, and tonight, his opponent was his own flesh and blood. The split personality he had kept buried for so long was beginning to surface.
"Boy, I know you ain't tryin' to solve this mess without me," Madea's voice rang out in his head, her words sharp, laced with sass. "You over here lookin' like you know somethin', but you don't know nothin'. Lemme show you how it's done."
Cross slammed his hands on the desk, leaning forward, trying to focus. But it was no use. The moment Madea had been triggered, the internal struggle began. It wasn't just her voice now; he could feel her taking over, creeping into his thoughts, pushing him aside.
"No. Not now," Cross muttered under his breath. His reflection in the window shifted as if Madea was there, watching him from the shadows. He was losing ground. "I have to stay in control. This is my case."
"You ain't controllin' nothin', baby," she chuckled darkly, her voice more menacing than comforting this time. "I raised you, didn't I? Now sit back and let Mama do her thing."
Cross clenched his fists, battling the psychological tug-of-war. He wasn't just fighting a criminal mastermind anymore. He was fighting the ghost of his past—a ghost who lived inside him. The death of Madea years ago had left him shattered, a psychological fracture that left him vulnerable to the very thing he now feared most: her taking control. Whenever he was stressed, overwhelmed, or backed into a corner, Madea came out to play. And when she did, chaos followed.
"Fine, you wanna solve this case, go ahead," Cross spat in frustration, knowing it was useless to resist now. "Just don't get me killed."
With a crack of her knuckles and a swagger in her step—well, in his step—Madea took the reins, her personality oozing into the forefront. The calculating, strategic mind of Cross was shoved aside for the moment, replaced by Madea's brazen attitude and unapologetic confidence.
Madea looked at the case files strewn across the desk, shaking her head. "Lawd, boy, you overthinkin' it. It ain't that hard. That fool Nigsaw just a wannabe, tryna scare folks with them lame puzzles. We gon' find this fool, and when we do, I'ma whoop him so bad his mama gon' feel it!"
Despite the situation, Cross found himself caught between horror and resignation. When Madea came out, it wasn't just about solving the crime; it was about survival, and not just from external threats—Madea's methods were unorthodox, to say the least.
The tension in the air thickened. A phone buzzed on the desk, snapping them both—Cross and Madea—out of their internal struggle. It was the precinct. Another crime scene, another victim, another message from Nigsaw.
"Looks like we're up," Cross murmured, barely holding onto his identity.
"Well, let's get movin', sugar," Madea chimed in. "Mama's gon' teach this fool a lesson he'll never forget."
And with that, the puzzle began.
The drive to the crime scene was tense, the city blurring past the windows as Cross, or rather Madea, sat behind the wheel. Even though Cross usually kept his emotions tightly controlled, tonight was different. The internal war between him and Madea left him disoriented, vulnerable. He had never encountered a killer like Nigsaw—one who seemed to know exactly how to push his psychological buttons.
Madea, on the other hand, seemed unbothered by the gravity of the situation. She hummed loudly, tapping her fingers on the steering wheel to some gospel tune stuck in her head.
"You know, you stress too much, baby. Just let Mama handle this." Her voice echoed in his mind as Cross struggled to focus. He gritted his teeth, feeling the tension build in his chest. The car jerked forward as Madea slammed the brake at a red light, causing the coffee in the cup holder to spill.
"Could you at least be careful?!" Cross growled internally, though he knew he was speaking more to himself than to her.
"Boy, hush up before I slap some sense into you," Madea shot back. "You lucky I'm drivin' at all. Now sit back and enjoy the ride."
They arrived at the scene—a rundown warehouse on the edge of the city. The area was cordoned off, flashing blue and red lights illuminating the dark alleyways. Cross parked the car, stepping out with Madea's characteristic swagger, still half in control of his body. His coat flapped in the wind as he approached the tape. An officer rushed forward to greet him, eyes widening at the sight of Cross's wild demeanor.
"Detective Cross, sir—uh—ma'am?" The officer stammered, clearly confused by the strange energy radiating off the detective tonight.
Cross waved him off with a quick grunt. "What've we got?" he asked, but it was clear to anyone watching that his voice wasn't entirely his own. There was a strange rhythm, a twang of southern sass in his tone.
The officer blinked, unsure how to proceed. "It's… it's another one of Nigsaw's. The same M.O. as the others—puzzle pieces, blood messages, traps. But this one's different. There's a—there's a video."
Cross's—Madea's—eyes narrowed. "A video, huh? Nigsaw steppin' his game up. Fool must think he's slick."
They were led inside the warehouse, the smell of decay hitting them immediately. In the center of the room was a scene out of a nightmare—an elaborate puzzle constructed from chains, gears, and sharp blades, all carefully designed to torture and maim. At the heart of it was the victim, a man who had clearly failed Nigsaw's "game." His body was twisted, broken, like a discarded puppet. But it wasn't the grisly scene that caught Cross's attention—it was the laptop set up on the table nearby, playing a looped video.
The team hovered near the monitor, visibly disturbed. Cross, trying to rein in Madea's dominant personality, stepped forward, his eyes locking on the screen. A figure appeared, sitting in the shadows, his voice soft but filled with menace.
"Hello, Detective Cross. Or should I say… Madea?"
A chill ran down his spine as the figure on the screen leaned forward, revealing Clifton Powell's grinning face—the unmistakable visage of Nigsaw. His eyes gleamed with twisted delight, like a predator who had finally cornered his prey.
Nigsaw continued, his voice smooth but chilling. "I know you're both there, watching. You've been playing two roles for years now, haven't you? The brilliant detective, solving crimes, saving lives. But there's another side of you, isn't there? The side that loves chaos. The side that embraces violence, unpredictability. Madea. She's not gone. No, she's very much alive."
Cross felt a wave of nausea. How did Nigsaw know? He had never told anyone about Madea—his split personality, his internal struggle. How could this killer possibly understand what was happening in his mind?
"Lawd, he think he's smart," Madea's voice rang out in his head, unbothered. "But he don't know who he's messin' with. I'ma smack that grin right off his face when we find him."
Cross fought for composure, focusing on the screen as Nigsaw continued.
"Madea has been hiding, but I can bring her out, can't I? That's the game, Detective Cross. You and I both know that solving puzzles is more than a mental exercise for you. It's a matter of survival. But the question is… which one of you will survive? The detective? Or the other?"
The screen flickered, and then a gruesome image filled the display—more victims, each one mangled in a new and horrific way. But something was different this time. The puzzles, the traps, they weren't just meant to kill—they were meant to break Cross's mind. Each scene was designed to mirror key moments from his past, twisted reflections of his childhood, his career, and most of all, his mother.
"You see, Detective," Nigsaw's voice returned, softer now, almost intimate, *"This isn't just a game of life and death. This is a test of your mind, your soul. Can you keep Madea in check? Or will she take over completely? Every victim you fail to save brings her one step closer to the surface. And when she does… I'll be waiting."
The video cut out, the screen going black. Cross stood frozen, the weight of Nigsaw's message crashing down on him. The room seemed to spin as Madea's presence grew stronger in his head, pushing at the walls of his mind, threatening to take full control.
"Well, that settles it," Madea muttered. "We gon' find this fool and end his little game, once and for all."
Cross clenched his jaw, his hands shaking as he grabbed the edge of the table. "No, Madea. I have to end this. Not you."
"Boy, you ain't doin' nothin' without me. You need me now more than ever. Nigsaw knows you better than you know yourself, baby. And he knows exactly how to break you. But me? I ain't breakin' for nobody. Let Mama do what she does best, and we'll finish this fool."
Cross closed his eyes, fighting for control. The case had just taken a terrifying turn. Nigsaw wasn't just a killer. He was after Cross's mind, his identity. And as the bodies piled up, the real question became: could Cross solve the puzzle before Madea took over for good?
"It's game time," Madea whispered. "Let's get to work."
Cross took a deep breath and stepped forward into the dark, knowing that the real battle had only just begun.
The stench of the warehouse hung in the air as Cross, still grappling with Madea's lingering presence, stared at the victim before him. The body was twisted within the contraption—a mess of chains, spikes, and mechanical gears that had long since ground to a halt. But it was the small object on the floor that drew his attention. Nestled between the victim's shattered fingers was a puzzle piece.
Cross crouched down and plucked it carefully from the blood-stained ground, holding it up to the light. It was an old-fashioned wooden jigsaw piece, seemingly innocent, but the edges were jagged and sharp, like a reminder that even the most innocent things could be lethal in the right hands. Cross knew all too well—this was Nigsaw's calling card.
The officer from earlier, still visibly shaken, approached hesitantly. "There's a message, Detective… I mean, Dr. Cross… uh—"
"Spit it out, boy, before I lose my patience!" Cross snapped, but it wasn't his usual sharp tone—it was Madea's drawl cutting through. He blinked, shook his head, and took a steadying breath. "What message?"
The officer led him to the far side of the room where a massive chalkboard was covered in symbols, scribbles, and what looked like pieces of a larger puzzle. In the center, written in dark red paint—likely blood—was a riddle:
"Solve the riddle, Detective Cross, or watch them fall,A mind divided, will answer the call.The truth you seek is buried inside,But if you fail, your demons won't hide.Tick-tock, tick-tock, the clock is running thin,Can you save them, or will your other self win?"
Cross's breath hitched as he read the words. Nigsaw was mocking him, digging at his deepest fear: losing control to Madea. The killer knew about his condition—he knew about the internal struggle. How? Cross wasn't sure yet, but the riddles were starting to feel less like a game and more like a trap for his psyche.
"Oh, please," Madea's voice broke through his thoughts again. "This fool thinks he's clever with his rhyming games. He don't know who he messin' with. I got riddles for days. You don't wanna play with me, baby."
Cross pressed his palms against his forehead, fighting to suppress her. Now wasn't the time for Madea's bravado; Nigsaw's victims didn't have the luxury of time.
The officer continued, oblivious to the internal war raging in Cross's mind. "This is the fourth one, Detective. All the victims have had similar riddles, each one more complicated than the last. We haven't been able to make sense of the clues. But there's one more thing…"
He motioned toward the far wall, where a ticking sound grew louder. Cross's heart sank. A digital timer was embedded into the wall, its red numbers flashing ominously.
1:42:58… 1:42:57… 1:42:56…
Cross's pulse quickened. "How long has that been counting down?"
"Since we arrived," the officer stammered. "We don't know what happens when it hits zero. But it's gotta be tied to Nigsaw's next move."
Cross scanned the room, his mind working in overdrive. Nigsaw's traps weren't just physical—they were psychological. He was using puzzles, riddles, and time to break his victims down, one piece at a time. The only way to stop him was to get ahead of the game. But the timer was a cruel reminder that Cross was always one step behind. And now, it wasn't just his life on the line—it was every potential future victim.
He felt a surge from within—a familiar presence stirring. Madea.
"Boy, you standin' there like you don't know what to do. Let me handle this. I'll crack this riddle faster than you can blink."
Cross shook his head, trying to maintain control. "No, not now. I need to focus."
"Well, you ain't doin' a good job of that, sugar. That timer ain't slowin' down for you to figure out if you got your big boy pants on. We need to move."
Before Cross could respond, Madea pushed her way to the front of his mind, taking over with ease. His posture shifted again, becoming looser, more relaxed but somehow more menacing.
"Alright, everybody listen up!" Madea's voice boomed through the room, startling the officers nearby. "We got less than two hours before somethin' goes boom, or worse, and we ain't sittin' here waitin' to find out. Now, where the rest of them riddles at?"
The officer, still visibly shaken by the sudden change in demeanor, fumbled through his notes. "Uh, here, ma'am—er, Detective. We've compiled all the riddles left behind at the previous scenes. None of them seem to connect, but—"
"Don't worry 'bout that, I got this," Madea said, snatching the papers from his hand. She looked over the riddles, muttering to herself as she paced back and forth. "Hmm, okay, I see what he doin'. He tryna be cute. But he messed up, 'cause he thought he could outsmart Mama. Watch this."
Cross, buried beneath Madea's assertiveness, felt a growing sense of dread. Madea's confidence was unnerving, but in moments like these, she had an uncanny ability to cut through the nonsense and get to the heart of things.
"These ain't just riddles, baby. They like steps. Clues leadin' to the next one. This fool think he buildin' some big ol' jigsaw puzzle, and we the final piece. But he sloppy. See here—every one of these riddles got a double meanin'. He usin' people's fears against them. And I know where he's goin' next."
The room fell silent as Madea—still in Cross's body—tossed the papers onto the desk. She pointed to the final riddle on the page, then to the map of the city pinned on the wall.
"Nigsaw's playin' games in plain sight. He ain't just hidin' bodies—he hidin' parts of his next move at each scene. Each clue's a part of somethin' bigger, and he's leadin' us to his endgame."
Cross's eyes, though outwardly controlled by Madea, narrowed on the map. She was right. The puzzle pieces weren't just physical objects left at each scene. They were locations, hints about where Nigsaw would strike next.
"This one here," Madea jabbed her finger at a spot on the map, "this is where he's hidin' his next victim. But we gotta hurry. You don't wanna see what happens if that clock hits zero."
Cross wrestled internally to regain control, but he could feel the truth in Madea's deductions. Nigsaw was using every scene, every clue, to lead them deeper into his twisted labyrinth. He was setting up something far more elaborate than a simple series of murders—this was his ultimate puzzle, and they were running out of time.
As Madea's grip on his consciousness loosened, Cross whispered, barely audible, "We have to beat him at his own game… before the puzzle pieces fit together. Let's move."
