Chapter Text
Dark.
That’s all Lawrence saw as he forced opened his eyes. A part of him wanted to believe that he was dead; that’s what he would prefer, of course. To rot for what he’d done.
Footsteps sounded from what sounded like a hallway followed by a sliding door that produced an unholy screech. A narrow slit of light pierced through the pitch black room, slowly creeping closer and closer until it overtook the man in the room lying on his back.
“John, he’s finally conscious,” Lawrence heard a voice call out. It sounded like a woman, but it wasn’t one he recognized. He attempted sitting up, only to be met with an unforgiving pain shooting up every bone in his body.
“Who’s—” a shriek escaped from his mouth; one he swiftly muffled with his hand. His eyes opened once more, only to find himself locking eyes with someone he did in fact recognize— it was the woman from the hospital that had been brought in for questioning when Lawrence was suspected to be the famous “Jigsaw Killer.” She herself had been through one of the putrid torture devices constructed by the killer. A game, as he’d call it.
“I would guess you’re hurting based off of that ungodly shriek,” the woman laughed to herself as she walked across the room and over to a drawer. “I didn’t know that was a sound a human could make. “ She was in the midst of rifling through half-empty pill bottles when Lawrence finally gathered the courage to sit up — and see half of his leg completely gone. Oh yeah. He did do that, didn’t he?
“Why am I alive?“ He forced the words out. “Did you save me? We have to go to the police. I got put in one of those traps, just like you did. I have to get up. Oh, I have to—“
“Ah! There it is!” the woman held up a pill bottle like a trophy, clearly not having had listened to a single word Lawrence had said in a panicked splurge. She looked at him with a grin and shook the container just a little bit. “Ibuprofen. For your foot. Or your leg. Or whatever’s left of you.”
“Are you serious? Did you not hear me?”
“Damn, stop shouting. You’re fine.”
“Where am I? And where’s—“ he stopped, a weight settling in his throat that he tried his best to swallow. “Is Adam here, too?”
Amanda chuckled lightly, though her demeanor seemed to shift ever so slightly. “He didn’t win his game, Lawrence.” She paused. “That is your name, right?”
He gave a single nod, but her words clung to him like a plague. He’s dead. He promised to go back. To find him again. To bring him home.
He’s dead. And Lawrence had no one to blame but himself.
Right as the silence in the room began to drill into him, another person appeared in the doorway. It was a much older man, thin and frail.
“Dr. Gordon, I’m pleased to see you awake and well,” the man said, sitting himself in a chair next to the bedside. “My name is John Kramer.” When Lawrence didn’t respond, John said, “How would you like to work for me?”