The needle slides beneath my skin, too easily now, like threading through old fabric. A fleeting sting, then warmth blooms—thick, heavy, chasing away the cold embedded in my bones. I watch my hand, once so steady in the operating room, now trembling like a leaf caught in a breeze. The irony stings sharper than the needle. I used to save lives with these hands. Now, I can barely hold them still.
I slump back, my skull meeting the cold concrete wall with a dull thud. Above, a dim bulb sways on its chain, casting shadows that twist and stretch across the room like long, hungry fingers. The air reeks of old antiseptic and metal. But beneath it, there's something worse, something foul, crawling under my skin. I can almost taste the rot. But it's familiar now, comforting even. It's a relief to be numb, to let the world drift out of focus.
The dull throb in my leg is ever-present, but the drugs take the edge off. The stump where my leg used to be still aches—phantom pain. But I can quiet it, dull it into submission.
"You're a doctor," the voice in my head whispers. "A healer."
No. Not anymore. Now I'm something else. Something worse.
I used to be someone—a surgeon, a father, a husband. But those identities feel distant, like half-remembered dreams. There are pieces of that man scattered somewhere deep inside me, but they're buried. I know I should fight to find them again, to claw my way back to the surface, but I'm too far gone. Too tired.
Or maybe I just don't want to.
The door groans open, but I don't bother to look. He never comes himself. There's always a shadow, a nameless figure stepping in—faceless, a marionette in black. His movements are quiet, precise, rehearsed. I'm like him now. Just another puppet. Just another tool, moving when the strings are pulled.
The man who steps through the door is faceless to me, just a body clad in black, eyes obscured beneath the shadow of a hood. He doesn't need to speak for me to know what's coming. There's always another job, another test. I'm nothing but a cog in the machine now, but I still play my part. After all, isn't that what I'm good at? Playing roles?
I stand, though it's never easy anymore. The prosthetic leg digs into the raw skin where flesh meets metal, and I hiss as the pain shoots through my body.
Each step sends a white-hot lance of pain up through my thigh where flesh meets the cold, unforgiving metal. It's a relentless reminder—a dull, gnawing ache—that no part of me is whole anymore. I hiss through clenched teeth, but it doesn't stop. The pain is always there, like the guilt, like the weight of the choices I've made, fused into me, inseparable from my very being. The drugs dull it, but they don't erase it. I limp forward, my steps uneven as I follow him through the narrow hallways, dimly lit, always cold. I don't ask where we're going. It doesn't matter. It's always the same in the end—another test, another trap. Another chance for me to prove just how far I've fallen.
"You're helping people."
That's the lie I tell myself. That's what he told me too.
"This is necessary," he'd said. "People need to be tested. They need to be pushed to see their true potential, to understand the value of life."
I think I believed him. Maybe I still do. It's hard to tell where his philosophy ends and my thoughts begin these days.
The figure brings me into the room, and I feel it again—the slow tightening in my chest, the anticipation. The test is already set. A surgical table in the center, a single light hanging overhead, casting an eerie glow. Tools laid out beside it—scalpels, forceps, saws. I used to be proud of my tools. Now they mock me.
I play my parts well. The surgeon in me notices the precise lines of the tools, each gleaming edge a reflection of the man I used to be. The father in me recalls a time when those hands cradled my daughter, gentle, deliberate. But now, the monster speaks louder, reminding me those same hands carve deeper, faster, with no room left for hesitation or remorse.
On the table is a man, conscious, wide-eyed, strapped down. His breathing is frantic, erratic, muffled pleas beneath the gag.
It doesn't matter what he's saying. They always plead. They always beg.
I lean on the table to take the weight off my prosthetic leg. A monitor beside the table flickers to life. There's a tape ready to play. Jigsaw's voice, delivering the rules of the game. I press play, and his voice fills the room.
"Hello, Christopher," the voice crackles, calm, measured, like delivering a lecture instead of a death sentence. "I want to play a game." His words slither into the room, filling the air, and for a moment, I see it in the man's eyes—a shudder of disbelief.
"For years, you have preyed upon the weak and vulnerable, exploiting their pain for your financial gain. But today, you will feel what it's like to be on the receiving end. Embedded in your abdomen are two keys. One will release you from your restraints. The other will open the door to your freedom. To retrieve them, you must undergo a procedure."
Christopher's eyes latch onto mine—wild, pleading, searching for a glimmer of humanity I can't give. His fear washes over me, thick and suffocating, but it finds nothing. My hands move, steady, surgical, disconnected from the man they once belonged to. I want to stop—I think I do—but the mercy he seeks is buried too deep under layers of blood and guilt.
The scalpel is cold in my hand, heavier than I remember, as though the weight of every life I've failed to save has fused into the steel. Once, this blade was my lifeline—a way to heal. Now, it's something else entirely. The line between savior and butcher has blurred, and I'm caught in the middle, unsure which side I belong to anymore.
"You're saving him," I tell myself. "This is his test."
I make the first incision.
His scream is muffled, but it reverberates through the room. His body jerks, but he can't escape. I dig deeper, the blade slicing through muscle and tissue. Blood wells up, hot and sticky, pooling beneath him. His eyes are wide, pupils blown with terror, and I see it—the moment he realizes he might not survive.
But it doesn't have to be. Not if he's strong enough.
I reach inside, fingers slick with blood, searching. My hand grazes something hard—metal. The first key. I hold it up for him to see, but his vision is already clouded with pain.
"You can stop this."
The memory barges in, uninvited. The day I said yes. The day I let go of the man I once was. I remember the sterile hospital room, the second time I'd checked myself into rehab. And John Kramer's voice—soft, persuasive, wrapping around my broken will like a snake.
"I can give you purpose again," he had said. And I, desperate, shattered, believed him.
"You survived your test," he'd said. "But you've lost your way. I can help you, Lawrence."
I was too weak to refuse. Too desperate.
I nodded. I agreed.
"You can stop this," the memory whispers again, but I shake it off. There's no stopping it.
The second key slips from his body into my hand, slick with blood. I hold it up, the cold metal gleaming, a final, bitter promise. His chest rises and falls in shallow gasps, his body trembling like it's trying to decide whether it still wants to live. I watch him from somewhere far away, detached, as if I'm not the one holding his life between my fingers. He's alive, but the truth is—he might as well already be dead. If the blood loss doesn't claim him, the game will.
I move quickly now, unlocking the restraints around his wrists and ankles. The keys clink as they fall to the floor, but I don't bother picking them up. The door across the room is still locked, but the second key will open it. If Christopher can make it that far.
I step back, wiping the blood from my hands on the edge of my shirt. My prosthetic leg aches, the weight of it almost unbearable, but I push the pain aside. It's nothing compared to what I've just done.
"You're helping him."
The lie tastes bitter in my mouth, but I swallow it down. I've done my part. The rest is up to him.
I limp toward the door, each step heavier than the last, the ache in my prosthetic almost unbearable. Behind me, I hear him—Christopher, gasping, the dull sound of flesh scraping against metal as he struggles to stand. It won't be enough. He'll bleed out before he makes it to the door, if the pain doesn't stop him first. But I don't look back. I can't. Because I know that if I did, I'd only see a reflection of myself—a man crawling, bleeding, desperate for an escape that isn't really there.
