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gvtted-ratz · 24 days

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My Life’s So Pitiful

Mark Hoffman x Adam Stanheight

Last Edited: 26/08/2024

TW: angst, death, stalking, age-gap, drugging, cannibalism, foul language, breaking and entering, canon-typical violence, graphic decomposition description, older man/younger man, not Lawrence friendly, open ending

Requested: No.

Word Count: 5,706

AO3 LINK -> HERE

Notes: He Hoff on our Man until he’s up and Adam after he Saw our Mark. Title is from Sick Puppies’s song called Pitiful. We really do hope you enjoy it. It’s taken more than a week to work on it. We’ve been dealing with some awful body pains/sickness and mental issues currently. So we hope that all the time we’ve put into this was worth it.

@rppik (editor/co-writer): Haven't seen these movies, can't handle gore in the slightest, but y'all are wilding huh.

The hospital’s cream-coloured walls combined with its sterile scent was much better than that of the bathroom’s. The bathroom was washed in shades of blue, hurting his eyes; that ordeal did the colour blue no favours at all in his mind. No, not after that hell.

The keys to his cuff had been lost down that drain, fucking him over the moment he awoke in that mouldy tub. It hadn’t even been his game to win, it was Lawrence's. Adam had been set up for failure when he was taken, given no chance to survive or make it out at all— never the low-life's chance to prove he deserved to win. No, redemption was offered to the wealthy snob, instead.

Cherish your life, my ass, is what he’d thought to himself. How could he cherish his life when all he got from that shithole was a bad case of PTSD and other possible ailments to his already poor health? He could bet on his fucked-up toe that had probably caught something like sepsis from his wounds.

He couldn’t forget the bullet wound, either. He got flashes from the resulting surgery even while awake; small glimpses of people shouting alongside some sort of pain shooting into the hole in his shoulder, digging around for the piece of metal that had been lodged into his flesh.

There had been a man screaming the entire time, however, Adam can’t remember who he was or where he had been. He knew that the screaming only stopped when they had fully sedated him. He had been expecting pain to be shooting all along his body, however, it was muted, almost like it had faded away into nothingness. He’d even done a thorough check over on himself, despite feeling weak in his appendages, to make sure he wasn’t still tripping out in that bathroom. The gaping wound in his shoulder was wrapped well, and the grey tint to his skin looked like it had more life to it. The feeling of being safe didn’t arise, however, despite him being in the medical unit. Instead, the feeling of deep fatigue reared its ugly head again as the drip continued to enter his blood via IV, pulling Adam back under the spell of sleep.

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“Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight needs rest, Detective. You must understand. His overall health been damaged tremendously. Until he wakes, you must wait outside the room,” It’s a voice Adam doesn’t recognize, possibly one of the nurses tending to him; he isn’t sure either way. However, he never liked cops. He’s had enough run-ins with them to know they won’t help him. So to know that they’re here, likely to ask him questions about that fucking bathroom, makes him want to close his eyes so he can go back to sleep.

“He looks awake to me,” a voice much deeper and smoother than the nurse’s retorts. Its tone reminds Adam of his mother’s know-it-all one back when he was still living with his family. Despite that, it’s much calmer than that of anyone he’s related to. Hell, the pitch itself is leveled in a way most people's voices aren't, except for maybe Lawrence's. Even then, it's too different to be a fair comparison to the doctor's tenor.

He doesn’t even try to hide that he’s now awake, instead opting to force his eyes open and turn his heavy-as-lead head towards whoever’s in his hospital room. The nurse, seeing this, decides to speak up with, “Mr. Stanheight, how are you feeling? Any pain?”

She keeps her distance, as though she doesn’t want to approach him. Her face is bland, unblemished, in a way that suggests he won’t remember her by next week; she's one of those people whose faces he wouldn't bother photographing because of how unremarkable her features are. Then again, she’s wearing a nondescript uniform, which isn't scoring her any points for individualism. Maybe if she wasn’t in her nurse garb and in civilian clothes, there could be some sort of personal preference for him to capture in her style; he’s always enjoyed the more personality-fuelled type of pictures than the giant corporate types.

God , he thinks, I feel like a creep. Wouldn’t that be close to the truth, huh?

“I feel like I’ve been shot, starved, and left to rot in a shithole bathroom,” he responds, throat feeling like it’s been torn to shreds. His lips feel like when mud dries out too fast, causing cracks along its dried surface. It’s painful; his voice, usually being strong and full of snark like he’s used to, is nearly hushed. He can feel tiny shards stabbing into his throat for so much as croaking out an answer.

The nurse grabs a small paper cup close to his bedside, filling it with water from a pitcher. He’s not sure how long it’s been there, although he’ll take anything other than the mouldy water from that hell. She holds it up to his lips, making him wrinkle his nose. His arm feels heavy as he grabs the cup from her, nearly spilling the water from how he fumbles. She retracts, allowing him to drink the water on his own. He hadn’t even tried using the bullet-wounded arm. He can feel the pressure from the bandage on his shoulder, having somewhat of a clear-enough mind to not move it.

He chugs the water, making his stomach cramp in pain from how fast he guzzled it. His face shows his regret in his decision, he just doesn’t voice it. He’s never been one to admit when he’s in the wrong. No, he’d rather call out those around him for something like that, showing the proof in pictures taken late at night.

“Now that you’re awake and fully conscious, I’d like to ask you some questions,” the soft-spoken voice is back, still just as deeply calming as before. The nurse decides it’s time to leave them be for now, making her way out the door, so the two can have their privacy.

Adam looks over at the guy, glancing up and down before going back up to his face. The unnamed detective’s lips are full while being set in a line, his face giving nothing away; he’s completely composed with an air of calm around him. From his suit to his hair, Adam can’t see a single flaw in how he’s maintained his appearance. That is, except for his eyes. They’re cold, seeming to be more empty than alive; it’s like all the life was sucked out of them. With another glance over, Adam decides that, despite that prim, proper appearance, there’s bound to be something inherently off with the detective.

Maybe he has some dark secret that well-adjusted men like him wouldn’t want to be exposed. Something like wanting to be restrained, yet asking for said restraints to be tighter than usual, or craving shards of glass to be imbedded in his back during an adrenaline-fuelled rush. Better yet, he could like putting people down to fulfill some sort of power fantasy by being the only one allowed to make the calls. Of course, it’s all speculation, with there being no concrete proof the photographer has to show. A guy can’t help but dream so he can make ends meet; the blackmail really does help the ‘ scum of the Earth ’ out.

“First, did Lawrence get out? He got us help?” He tries to keep the hope out of his voice; he doesn’t succeed. He kept his promise, right?

“Unfortunately not, Mr. Faulkner-Stanheight–,” Adam cuts him off, not willing to listen to the entirety of his last name for however long the guy will be here for.

“Stanheight is fine. Or Adam. Just not my entire fuckin’ name. It’s a damn mouthful.”

“Dr. Gordon was delirious with blood loss for the first two days of him being admitted to the hospital. There was no mention of your possible location. You were deemed missing for almost two weeks before being dumped close by in the very early hours of the morning.” He continues on, his soft-spoken tone sounding remorseful, but the dead look in his eyes doesn’t change, making it apparent it’s forced; Adam can’t help but admit that it does sound genuine. He can feel his hope dry up, becoming a pit in his stomach. “We had asked him multiple times, however, he claimed that you were deceased.” That’s the final blow to any hope or gratitude he may have help for the doctor.

“He promised he’d come back, except he fucking lied.” Pain mixed with disdain is so prominent in his voice that it cracks. He doesn’t cry, even though he can feel the water building up around his eyes.

It’s not the type of heart-break pain you feel when your crush rejects you. No, it’s that searing pain in your heart when you’ve been told the opossum you’ve not only been caring for, but also talking to, has just been brutally murdered; the sort of pain that reminds you that you made it out of hell but one of your only friends is fucking dead. That’s the pain he feels, having been told that the promise he was given, filling him with hope, was total bullshit. He, a nobody who thought that he could have some sort of friendship with a guy out of his league, was left to perish without a second thought.

“Your gunshot wound was infected, with the bullet still stuck inside your shoulder. You were delirious with hunger and dehydration. The water you were consuming to stay hydrated had rust mixed with mould in it, causing you more harm than good,” the detective lists, all the while Adam is starting to shake with anger and hurt. “The meat you had been taking bites of was starting to decompose due to aerobic bacteria. This means that Zep, the man you had been feasting on to survive, was becoming slime on the outside as time went on. His odour became worse as he discoloured, producing gas, while also decomposing rapidly. You only made yourself sicker.”

“So you’re saying everything I did to survive meant nothing?” Adam’s shaking, close to losing it completely. He feels like a failure, having this random detective tell him in remarkable detail all the ways in which it was a mistake to eat parts of Zep, paired with drinking that rancid water to make the bodily pains go away. He knew it was making him weaker either way, fuelling his delirious, delusional state. He could feel it all.

“Yes, but no. As you made yourself sicker, you hastened your would-be death through the poisoning. Your misguided efforts, and your will to survive, must have meant something to your captor as you were dropped before you could succumb to your ailments.” It’s stated softly, almost like the other man is impressed with how far Adam was willing to go just to live another day. From ingesting a decomposing corpse to willing swallowing down contaminated water, he must have made an impression on the unnamed cop.

“And what about Lawrence?” Despite his betrayal, he has to know.

“What about him, Mr. Stanheight?”

“How did he get out? I heard him scream from beyond that door. How did he leave?”

“Dr. Gordon was dropped off just like you were, only much earlier. He had a prosthetic already attached, with his wounds bandaged. He was released close to the time you were admitted.” His words only make Adam feel even shittier. Not about Lawrence, but about himself.

“Did he say anything about me besides me being dead? Did he even visit?” There’s silence from the man, only letting Adam know that Lawrence really had left him, never planning on going back.

“...He has covered your hospital costs and was released into the care of his family two days after you were brought in. He did not mention anything else about you or wanting to visit.” The tears that had been building up finally spill over, rolling down Adam’s cheeks. He can feel his face getting hot, with his nose getting stuffy as he cries. The detective simply stands there quietly, not saying anything for a moment to let Adam get it out of his system. He can feel the older man’s eyes never once straying away his face, making this all the more uncomfortable for the usually rage-fuelled man.

After a few minutes, Adam starts to wrangle his emotions back into place, allowing the other man to say, “If you’re applicable, I’d like to take your statement.” He takes a few steps closer, pulling out a pad and a pen to take his statement. He uses the end of the pen to push the semi-full box of tissues on the table’s side towards Adam, removing it when Adam takes a few tissues to blow his nose rather loudly.

“Yeah, that’s fine. Fuckin’ whatever,” he tries to get himself back into his usual headspace, not wanting to break down again despite knowing he will.

“I’d like you to start with what you were doing before you were taken from your apartment nearly two weeks ago,” he starts, only to stop when Adam gives him a disbelieving look. “What?”

“You’re not gonna tell me your name first? How do I know if you’re really a detective?” It comes off as petty, and maybe a little delayed, though Adam doesn’t plan on letting anyone start to ask him questions on anything without introducing themselves first. He learned his lesson last time with the man who hired him to take photos of Law- Dr. Gordon .

“I am Detective Mark Hoffman. I’ve been assigned your case pertaining to the man known as ‘Jigsaw’ or ‘The Jigsaw Killer.’” He pulls out his badge after balancing his pen on his pocket notepad. He doesn’t put it away until Adam nods, letting him know that he’s done looking at it.

“Alright then, Big Guy,” He doesn’t plan on using his name any time soon; it’s simply not how Adam works, unless he’s in a life-or-death situation again. “Can you repeat your question?” He’s expecting a sigh from the older man, but he doesn’t do anything more besides blink at him and repeat his words like Adam asked.

“What you were doing the night you were taken from your apartment nearly two weeks ago?”

“I was talking to Little Bastard-”

“Little Bastard?” Hoffman actually seems a little amused at the name while fishing for information.

“He’s this opossum that used to come into my apartment sometimes. I’d let him hang around and chat with him. I bought a dog bowl to put some scraps I got from take out in for him,” there’s fondness in his tone of voice as he talks about one of the few friends he had. He’d include Scott, except for the fact that he’s more of an asshole he can go get free booze from than an actual buddy.

“Alright, continue then,” he writes down something Adam can’t see. He wouldn’t put it past the cop to say he’s a delusional loner.

“As I was saying- I was talking to Little Bastard and put him down by his food bowl before I went to my darkroom to develop some photos for this guy-”

“What were they about and for, Mr. Stanheight?” He’s interrupted again, feeling some of his buried anger starting to surface again.

“Does it really fuckin’ matter?”

“In fact, it does. I need everything you can remember so we can narrow down possibilities on why you were targeted,” Hoffman says this as smooth as humanly possible. Maybe in his previous life he was a tapioca pearl with how smooth his voice is; only he died early because he was in some person’s tea or pudding.

“Fuckin’ fine . I was hired by a guy who said his name was ‘Bob,’ and he wanted me to take photos of Dr. Gordon. The pay was about two-hundred dollars for every batch of photos I brought in. I didn’t know the client was a detective, okay? Fuckin’ Gordon said that it was some ex-cop who thought he was Jigsaw,” Adam spits out the words, hating every second of it.

“So you were targeted because you spied on others for cash,” it’s a statement rather than a question. Adam sneers, letting his silence on the matter explain his answer. “Alright, Mr. Stanheight, you can continue with your earlier statement.”

“I went into the darkroom to develop those pictures, except I got tired, so I ended up sleeping in there. When I woke up after my nap, all the power was out. Like, nothing was turning on at all. Then I heard this noise, and it made me think someone broke into my fuckin’ place.” Adam moves his uninjured arm as he talks, waving it around, making gestures. “So I grabbed my camera and used the flash on it by taking pictures to see if I could find ‘em. There was this puppet in my living room, just sitting there laughing at me. I got my baseball bat to destroy the little fucker. It was annoying as shit with its laughing. And then I heard the bastard behind everything move around in my closet and I just,” he pauses, frowning as he starts to get angry again. “I opened the door thinking I could take ‘em, but I couldn’t. I ended up fuckin’ knocked out just to be put in that shithole.”

“Alright, thank you for your statement, Mr. Stanheight.” There’s no ‘ I’m sorry that happened to you ’ or ‘ You’re lucky you survived .’ It’s a simple dismissal with no pity. In a way, it’s nice, since there’s no one looking down on him. There also isn’t anyone trying so hard to get on his good side, befriending the traumatized man, just to brag about how they met a ‘ real-life true crime victim ’; it’s just a breath of cold fresh air.

“You don’t need my account of that hellhole?” Along with Hoffman’s voice being soft-spoken with its deep, smooth tone, Adam can’t help but admit that he’s also a small, maybe even a tiny bit, attractive. Plus, he hasn’t exactly looked down on him like Dr. Gordon did in the bathroom. The memory of how the doctor called him all those names, plus shooting him, makes a small stab of pain hit him.

“Dr. Gordon’s account matches with that of the evidence found on you both. Your stories on being taken from your locations also have enough similarities for us to rule out neither of you being suspects nor accomplices. Despite your hobbies , Mr. Stamheight, there is nothing else I’ll be needing from you. If you do happen to remember anything from your kidnapping, you may call.” He pulls out a card from his suit pocket before handing it out to Adam. There’s no hesitation from Adam when he grabs it. “I wish you a speedy recovery, Mr. Stanheight.”

With those words, Detective Hoffman puts away his pen and pad before departing from his room. Adam watches with a sort of disappointment weighing down on him. He knows he’ll be able to get information on him, though, something to satisfy that lingering curiosity in his mind. If he was able to get info on Dr. Gordon, then he could get it on Detective Mark Hoffman.

He knows something is off about the guy. He just can’t help but be unnerved by the detailed description of the bathroom he gave. He also finds it weird that Hoffman knows so many details on Zep’s corpse, despite neither Adam nor Lawrence being found near it or the bathroom. That in itself is bizarre, as was the detached way in which the detective described it. This gives Adam more questions than he’s comfortable leaving unanswered, a prickling feeling at the back of his neck makes him think that a part of that hell has breached his prison just to follow him outside its walls. He just has to wait until his physical wounds heal before he can start digging for answers.

------------------------------

His place is completely trashed from cops snooping around. Any food that he could have had before the abduction is spoiled, rotting all over his counter, including what’s left in his open fridge. Thankfully, he has some funds from the program that good doctor had set up for people like them .

Right. People like them . The thought makes him grimace even more while he starts to pack a few of his items. The funds provided are enough for another flat, some new food, and maybe even more clothes. He’s glad his film, together with his camera, weren’t messed with. It seems like they were hidden away in some hole in the wall, although by whom or for what reason he isn’t sure; the peeling wallpaper seemed to be enough to cover up the hole, so the cops didn’t find it.

With his camera, film, and shoddy blanket all packed up in a duffle bag, he casts a nervous glance around the downright shit-stain of a home. The fear of that masked pig lurking around is present even as he leaves. He made sure to call to book the open-house appointments for apartments while in the hospital, so when he got released, he’d just have to show up to the open-house tour when scheduled. He didn’t want to pack what he had just to wander around aimlessly after the discharge. No, that would mean that if he didn’t find one, he’d be sleeping back there where everything had happened. It really doesn’t help Adam’s psyche that his bathroom reminds him of the one he was left to rot in.

So when he finds a place that is on the cheaper side but more of an upgrade than his last place, he takes it. The rent is about the same; the difference is that the heating won't go out, nor is the wallpaper shredded and peeling. There’s no mould he can find or weird scents he can smell either. All in all, it's a better option than what he was expecting to come across.

The unpacking of items takes less time to do than make a cup of instant mashed potatoes; it really is pathetic in a way. Adam knows he's pathetic, though. As well as an asshole, since he doesn’t exactly project all rainbows and sunshine. Fuck that. It’s a waste of time , is what always comes to his mind the moment someone tells him to ‘ try to be nice ’.

The moment he touches his camera, he remembers the urge to find that detective again. The fear of being caught by Jigsaw thrums alongside his own heartbeat, but the need to actually gather something from the older man won't go away. He’d seen him up close in the medical unit, yes, but he doesn’t have anything other than his card to remember him by. Adam knows himself well enough to recognize that if he doesn’t get something else, he’ll tear his own hair out from the prickling buzz under his skin.

He places a call to someone to pick him up when it starts to get dark, since he doesn’t have a ride; he can also use them to drop him off close to the detective’s home if he does happen to come across him.

Grabbing his camera and the card Hoffman gave him, he starts to think of a plan on what to do when he gets down to the station. As he exits his new place, he thinks about how he won’t go inside; that’ll only give himself away. Instead, he’ll be camping it out, watching for when the other leaves, only to follow him back to his place of residence. If he's got one thing to be proud of in his work, it's the fact that he hasn't been caught by any of his targets yet.

Jigsaw doesn’t count. Fucker wasn’t my target , floats in his head, a lit cigarette in his mouth as he walks down the sidewalk. His camera hangs around his neck as smoke leaks out from his mouth.

He knows the town like the back of his hand; Adam knows the shittiest parts of it even better, having lived in more than half of them throughout the years. So when he sees the police department with its usual pigs crawling about, he finds a spot to hang out at that won't draw their attention. He sets up his little camping spot with himself, the camera, a lighter, and his box of cigarettes he plans on smoking through.

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A box of cigarettes, a two-hour nap, and a few camera shots of people later, Adam watches Hoffman leave the station near dark. It’s almost too difficult to see now that the day has decided it’s had enough shit to deal with. Or, that’s how Adam sees it; either way, he makes due.

While he watches Hoffman approach his car, the younger of the two sees another car pull up. This one appears to have been put through the damn wringer, only to then be set on fire; moreover, it looks like hot garbage.

Inside the piece of shit vehicle is the driver. He doesn’t know their name. All he does know is that he met them at a bar one night, with them saying that if he ever needed a drop-off to give them a call. Despite smelling like a skunk while flying a kite as high as it can go, they were pretty down to earth.

“Adam, hey,” a dopey smile spreads across their face as Adam walks up. He piles in the passenger’s seat, brushing the rubbish off it and onto the floor.

“Think you can follow that pig’s car?” There’s a slow blink before their dopey smile gets a little bit wider.

“No problem, man. Good to see you again,” they reply, starting to follow the detective’s vehicle. “Where you been? Haven’t seen you in like… A month?” They don't seem certain with the time frame, but Adam waves his hand in dismissal.

“Yeah. Had some shit happen, but I’m good now.”

“Good enough to follow law people like a little creep,” they laugh a bit, one arm nudging Adam in good faith. Adam gives them a glance, knowing that they aren’t the type to have a mean bone in their body.

“Yeah, gotta make some fast cash is all,” he says, tapping his camera. They nod along, not thinking to question him at all. Yeah, he might not know them or their name, though he does think he could call them a semi-friend.

“Well, if you need a ride or a smoking buddy, you got my number. No pressure, dude.” Neither of them talk for the remaining duration of the ride. Adam never once lets his eyes leave Hoffman’s 2006 Ford Crown Victoria; Adam even forces himself to repeat his license plate, SOE-710, over in his head on replay. He huffs, figuring that of course a cop would get the latest model available. Anyone who made the big bucks would splurge it on new cars, making Adam think that Hoffman really isn't that much different from all the other snotty rich folk.

As Hoffman’s car pulls up towards his apartment complex, the hunk-of-junk Adam’s pitched a ride in stops on the corner; while still close by, Adam doesn’t want Hoffman to think that he’s being followed. His driver did make sure to keep a little ways away the entire time, making Adam hope the detective was tired enough to not notice.

“Thanks, uh,” he pauses, remembering he doesn’t know their name. They laugh, leaning forwards as their entire body shakes from the sound coming from inside them.

“Dude, you really don’t have a clue? Man, that’s so fuckin’ funny!” They keep laughing, starting to gasp for air from how amusing they find the situation. Adam gives them a dirty look. “It’s fine, it’s fine! Just get out there, dude! Call me Dee or something.”

“Dee for driver? Really?” He looks completely unamused at their choice in name.

“Yeah! Or you can just call me Driver. Now get out there! I got a bar to visit. Friends need me, man,” They tell him, waving the man off and unlocking the car’s doors. The young man gives up, throwing his hands up in exasperation before leaving the vehicle.

“I’ll call you later, maybe,” he slams the door shut, now making his way towards Hoffman’s apartment complex. He hears Dee’s car take off, leaving him the only one outside. His heart pounds as adrenaline rushes through him. He doesn’t know which room belongs to the older man, nor sure how far into the building he’s gotten, yet.

Instead of immediately going to the complex, he hides around the corner to sit in waiting. He doesn’t want to enter the place with Hoffman still present. Adam turns on his camera, aiming it at the complex. The sound of the shutters clicking is the only sound he hears besides his own breathing; he can hear some distant dog barking a few blocks away. The area sounds like most residential places Adam’s been to, minus the ones he’s stayed at; those always had people yelling or screaming. Other times, they’re eerily silent.

It’s only about half an hour later that Hoffman exits the complex, heading for his parked car. When he had gone in, he had on his suit, tie, and dress shoes. Now, though, he’s dressed in a Defender Black Eider Lanfon Parka, a black shirt that still is too tight for the assets he possesses; dark cargos; and boots. Where the big guy is going, Adam isn’t sure.

The darkly dressed man enters his car, taking off into the night. With him now gone, Adam makes his way to the complex, entering through the doors. Not knowing where to start first, he makes his way past the front and towards the stairs, eyeing them before turning his gaze to the elevator. Unsure on which to take, he stands there, looking between the two; it’s not even that, the number of floors listed has just reminded him that he has no idea which one the man lives on.

“What are you doing?” A voice asks him. He turns around to see an elderly woman peeking out from her door.

“Yeah, uh. I’m lookin’ for my friend, Mark? He’s like, tall, looks like he could tear you a new asshole for so much as sneezing too loud,” Adam says, trying to plaster on a smile; it doesn’t appear to do much besides make him look constipated.

“The Detective? Yes, I know him. He never mentioned anyone coming over,” she doesn’t seem to be fooled by Adam’s smile nor words.

“Yeah, I’m dropping off some pictures he asked me to take. Dug around and found a few he said he wanted to keep, took a few he thought would look nice in the album,” he tries his best to not sound snarky or too mean to the old woman. She’s the only one who’s clearly nosy enough to answer him with how she stuck her head out the moment she noticed him.

“Oh, how nice of you, Dear! The Detective lives on the second floor, room 12. I hope he gets those pictures quickly. He always seems to be the lonely type,” with those last words, she closes the door.

“Huh. That was… Easy,” Adam mumbles, clicking on the ‘up’ button. The elevator opens after a few seconds, having needed the time to lower the cramped box it holds. The doors open, letting Adam inside. He crams himself into the corner of the lift, letting the possible death contraption rise, bringing him to the second floor. Once the doors open, he’s quick to exit, walking down the hall to find Apartment 12.

“Took long enough,” he mutters, standing outside the door, the number 12 sitting right next to it. Digging through his pockets, he finds the lock pick kit he bought after his hospital release. Hard to get into an apartment he owns when the key to it was taken as evidence, never to be given back. He had been lucky to even get his wallet, along with the donation money from some charity dedicated to Jigsaw victims.

The twenty-seven-year-old crouches down, sliding the tools into the lock. Never thought I’d be breaking into a dude’s home who’s sixteen years older than me, he thinks to himself, finally getting the door unlocked. He puts away his kit, heading inside the now open flat.

It’s dim and quiet, only his shuffling to be heard. There’s dust in a few places when he lets his eyes wander. Bookshelves with few books stationed alongside dirty knick-knacks don’t give Adam that homey-feel one would think; maybe it’s all the dust and lack of light.

Entering the kitchen, he heads towards the fridge, opening the door to snoop around. Pigs usually make more money than some gutter-rat like Adam, so he’s curious to see what’s there. Surprisingly, it’s nearly empty unless you discredit the large quantity of beer. Looking at the dustbin, he sees it overflowing with various amounts of take out containers.

“A drunk unable to cook. Who would have thought,” Adam snarks to himself. A creak is the only warning he gets before something large descends upon his shoulders, pulling him away from the fridge. He throws out his arms, trying to get whatever grabbed him off. He hears a grunt from the perpetrator when he smashes his heel into their foot. A stinging pain erupts from the side of his neck, making Adam cry out.

He’s able to slip out of his attacker’s grasp, reaching for a knife from its block. Adam feels his body starting to sag, just like how it was when he was taken by Jigsaw. Turning to look behind him, his body starts giving out. Crashing to the floor, the knife leaves his hand as his vision swims. In front of him is a large man, a pig mask covering his face, and an empty syringe clasped in his hand. His vision goes dark, ears tuning into the sigh he hears above him before it fades away into the buzzing sound of static.

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