They say one of the most painful and horrible ways to die is by drowning. The lack of ability to breath, the flooding of the lungs as one would struggle to fight to find any solace of air to release them from such suffering. The chest tightens, sight begins to black out, and the fear overwhelms the mind. Peter would know. Near drowning was a terrifying experience and he can admit that. However, he was now stuck in another predicament.

Now, would anyone really have a reason to lay in a coffin full of glass and being asked if you trusted this crazy killer? Absolutely not, you have logical sense. Perhaps Peter should have just walked away. Left the area instead of trying his luck in kidnapping this piece of shit cop. Now he was going to die officially due to his own inability to stop looking for this bastard. The walls were closing in and Peter was beginning to feel the same fear he felt in his gut as water began to flood in. The stupid bastard was lowered into the floor, smiling, watching Peter slam against the walls like a trapped hare.

Peter looked up and saw grating. The walls were closing in and he didn't have a lot of time but he used them to climb himself up and tugged at the bars. The walls were tightening in more, and he was feeling claustrophobic. His chest ached again as the pressure rose. If you ever felt your ulna and radius bones split from your arm, through your skin and muscle, you would know it was an absolutely agonizing feeling. A yell was nearly pitched into a hoarse scream but it was enough drive for Peter to pull the grating off and pulled himself up, losing a shoe in the process. The walls closed.

It was dark, barely any light besides from other parts of the plant. Wherever Peter was, it was hard to tell. The flooring seemed like a grated walkway, with parts of it broken from him pulling himself out. The agent collapsed onto the walkway, trembling from exertion. A choked whine rose in his sore throat. It felt like it was on fire, and it was no wonder considering he was straining it with yelling and screaming. Every little breath pulled attention to the pain in his arm. He attempted to flex his left arm without much thought but the act practically made him throw up. There was no way Peter could stay there and wait until Hoffman finds him. With a deep inhale, he used his good arm to prop himself up and get to his knees, wobbly from pain and adrenaline which was still keeping him going.

Every little movement was like walking through fire. His body ached, and his mind was not sure what to process first. The walkway creaked with every heavy and staggered step. Every little noise had Peter strain his ears, the blood pounding in his ears. His eyes blurred over as he walked himself out, though paced himself to make sure he could get out.

"Strahm?"

The voice nearly threw him to the ground again and he stared at the man approaching him. It wasn't Hoffman, but Erickson. Somehow, that was immensely worse. Though as his higher up approached him he paused seeing Peter hold his gore of his arm. Peter could only open and close his mouth before he felt himself fall forward.

The very familiar smell of cleaning supplies was the first thing he noticed. Every inhale he took stirred a sting in his throat. The very sting made Peter want to clear his throat. He swallowed and groaned and it was then Peter realized he was awake. As the realization woke him up, an awful ache overwhelmed his body, like it had just became aware of all that had happened. Blinking awake, Peter attempted to look around and ignore this ache, especially the dull thrum that his left arm gave. The room was empty, but the lighting at least told him it was day.

His head fell back against the pillow and Peter gave a shaky breath as he tried to recall all of what happened. He was getting out of the plant. He remembered the walls. The sounds of his bones cracking as-

A door click brought his attention immediately. His eyes clicked onto Erickson. Right. Erickson was there too. He must of brought Peter to the Hospital. Peter went to lift himself up when he felt his right arm remain still. A handcuff to the hospital bed.

"I know you have quite the ambition of completing work when you don't need to, but sneaking into the office archives and lying to me was not one of the things I ever expected from you." Erickson stated bluntly, not really caring too much about Peters slightly confused and bleary-eyed nature.

Peter opened his mouth but no words could form. What could he say? Defending himself like he did before? This was a major incident, Erickson wouldn't let it slide. Peter knew better.

"You are also under investigation in relations to the Jigsaw case."

That made Peter wake up immediately. His voice could still not summon words, but his jaw clenched ignoring the swelling ache. Everything inside him screamed in defiance, that how could he possibly be put under investigation for this horrendous crime? Erickson didn't continue for a moment, instead seeming interested about what was outside the window. It slowly formed to Peter, about how he looked, and wondered if Hoffman knew of that? Took advantage of that. The behavior he showed towards Jill Tuck included. There was always something there with her and Peter knew that. This obsession backfired on him, and since he wasn't dead, he surely would rather be.

That was exactly the problem. This obsession. Peter always chalked it to being an exaggeration that he was so dedicated to this case and that he overworked himself. No, that wasn't true. However, it wasn't the case that he was necessarily obsessed with. That thought seemed to make him uncomfortable.

"You'll be released in a few days, but once that happens you will need to turn everything in."

"What?" Peter croaked, his thoughts coming back forward as he looked over at Erickson.

"You can no longer be under service with us, you will need to turn everything in when you are released from the hospital. All your things have already been packed from your desk."

This wasn't fair.

That was the first thing Peter thought. And it was such a childish thing to think. Of course it was fair. Everything Erickson was deciding on was fair.

"You will be monitored at your home and we will have you in to be reviewed and interrogated." Erickson continued, and raised his brows like he respected a response. Usually, Peter would give one. Something told him his temper wouldn't help here even if he was frustrated.

Without much more conversation to be had, Erickson left the room, closing the door behind him. Peter's head fell back into his pillow as he stared at the ceiling. The silence of the room was heavy, the sheets tugged him down almost frozen. If he wasn't already as tired and aching as he was he probably would throw up from everything that just happened. A part of him wish he could throw up because then at least he'd have a physical representation of what he felt like.

The next couple of days have been the most antagonizing by far. Almost none of previous coworkers gave Peter so much as a look. It was mildly infuriating but also incredibly upsetting. Not like Peter would show it. He kept his expression neutral, his mouth shut and sat down easily at the Interrogation table.

The next hour was a rough one. Sure Peter had a lack of temper control, and he overworked himself and snuck around for this case, but under no circumstances was there anything wrong with his mental state. He was rather firm on that, though his fixation on the case was obvious. To Peter he was doing his job, the exact thing they required of him in the agency. Thorough work, deep investigations, doing all by any means necessary to get the answers the whole city was craving. Hoffman was not a hero and Peter would never get to be one.

People he once thought friends brought him to a striking wake up call. This was business to them. No one uttered a word or vouched for him or even tried to butter him up in a casual way. No, everyone went the professional route.

Would Lindsey have done the same?

This thought sucked any frustration out. It was filled, instead, by a hollow lump. Five years those two were partnered together. Five years with the best friend he could ever have. All those years gone in his arms. Something nobody batted much an eye to. How devastating it was to call her mom and tell her. How much it drove him further into his work and yet here he was being accused of the case he was placed on. The mere passing thought that Lindsey would turn around look into Peter being a suspect was absurd. But it wasn't impossible.

Peter wanted out of here. He didn't want to be in this agency anymore. He didn't want to be in this room anymore. The other agents noticed when Peter stopped responding to them completely. Not getting much out, they had him escorted home. If eyes were on Peter, he paid no mind. He didn't have the energy to give into a response. He didn't give people he couldn't trust the satisfaction.

What others would call paranoia, Peter would call logic. No job, everyone looking at him like he's some killer was incredibly asinine. At this rate, all Peter wanted was to lay down and sleep this nightmare away, wake up and have things the way he wanted them to.

Not a single word from Hoffman. Not even a hint or letter. No tip or witty mention. Was it even about Hoffman, was it even him he fought in the meat plant? Yes, it was, there was no doubt about that. Maybe he was paranoid, could Peter even begin to trust his gut anymore? For all he knew this was purgatory, maybe he died in that room and now he's living with the consequences as an undead gore pile living out a future he would have reasonably gotten.

In reality, who would even begin to hear Peter out? Nobody would vouch for him besides Lindsey and she was dead. Hoffman probably would find a way to get rid of him again and Erickson no longer trusted him, clearly buying into this idea that Peter would want to do these sort of fucked up trials. There was no doubt Hoffman likely had suggested this, another thing to get off his back if he couldn't kill Peter.

No one was going to believe him, and since he was no longer with them, then they too were against him. It was back to what it probably was destined to be, Peter Strahm was on his own.