The silence fell immediately after the last choking breath.
The pendulum blade struck down once again by inertia, scratching the metal of the vice, and froze, as if satisfied with what had done its job.
Maria lay motionless. Her face — gray, her mouth half open, her eyes glazed and looked towards the exit from the room. Blood slowly collected under her body in a warm puddle, mixing with dirty water and fuel oil.
In the darkness, as if coming to life along with the echo of the last breath, a silhouette appeared.
Slowly, confidently. It was John.
The pig mask flashed under the lantern, he took a step closer — the same step that separates the observer from the performer. He stopped above Maria's body and for some time simply looked down at her, as if assessing the result of the work.
The pendulum froze. The vice trembled as it sank.
The snow outside continued to fall, but here below it was humid and damp — the silence seemed to be saturated with iron and blood.
John crouched down near Maria's cooling corpse. His movements were almost silent, precise, calm. He took his time — strict composure in every detail. Taking out the scalpel, he carefully took the left side of her abdomen, where the skin was still intact, and made the first incision.
The blood began to flow in a thin, warm line.
He cut the piece quickly and cleanly — flat, recognizable puzzle outline.
The yellow light under the bridge highlighted the shine of fresh meat, the neat red oval of the trophy.
He stood up, looked at the cutout and nodded, satisfied. I put the puzzle fragment in a protective bag and put it in my inner pocket.
No emotions. No hesitation. This is how justice is done — methodical, dispassionate, cold, but inevitable.
John looked at Maria again.
— Game over, — he said quietly through the mask.
Then he turned around and went back into the darkness — to where his steps were instantly absorbed by the noise of the river and the low hum of cars overhead. The place was cleared of the presence of the living.
All that remained was snow, blood and the cut fate of man.
Chicago at night fell silent under the low hum of bridges. There was almost no wind — only water dust from the river hung in the air, like thin gray smoke. Today there was dead silence under the concrete supports where homeless people usually hid.
Journalist Michael Ryan was sitting in the car, waiting for at least some activity. His police wave radio was on. Boring night, zero activity — but it was at such moments that something worthwhile happened most often.
And it happened.
— «...under the Lower Wacker Bridge... body... strange installation... the patrol left...»
Michael didn't even listen to the end. He turned on the engine and took off, as if he was afraid that someone would make it earlier.
When he reached the point, the patrol car was already standing at the entrance to the service tunnel under the bridge. The car was closed. No one is nearby — which means the patrol went inside or has already left or got scared and called for reinforcements.
This has happened. But if they return with «the professionals», the journalist will get nothing. Michael turned off the headlights, grabbed the camera and entered the concrete opening.
It smelled of rust, wet metal... and blood. Fog swirled across the floor, clumping into heavy white stripes. He took a few steps — and saw.
The room was cramped and low. The lamps above went out a long time ago, and only a faint light from the street broke through the ventilation grille.
There was a trap in the center of the room. Homemade, but verified. A steel structure, tensioned cables, a mechanism with a pendulum that was still slowly swaying, as if everything had happened about three minutes ago.
There was a woman lying on the table. Cut into the butt at abdominal level. The blood was still dripping onto the floor, forming viscous threads. But this was not what attracted the eye most of all. A piece of leather in the shape of a puzzle was neatly carved into the body.
Michael didn't immediately pick up the camera.
First he exhaled — slowly, confused. — Damn...
He knew about maniacs. He knew about urban legends. He knew names that the police preferred not to talk about out loud.
But this... it was new. Not a crime scene — signature.
Whoever did this wanted to be found. It was not his victim who was found, but his work.
Michael picked up the camera and took the first photo. Click.
The second one. The third. He filmed everything: a pendulum, a hand vice, blood, a place where there was no puzzle-shaped skin, relief marks on the floor, even drops splashed on the wall, like from an artist's brush.
He heard neither steps nor voices. Nobody came back. Nobody interfered.
He understood: the patrol was either scared and retreated. Or I just didn't notice the entrance from the other side. But none of this mattered.
The main thing is — he was here first. And this meant that it was a sensation.
Returning to the car, Michael slammed the door and sat motionless for several seconds. Then he turned on the camera screen and looked at what he had filmed.
The shots turned out too good. Too real.
He felt a trembling rise in his chest — a mixture of horror and delight.
— Well hello «Jigsaw» — he whispered.
He knew this name. I knew his motives and now I saw his work with my own eyes. «This will make me famous and rich» he thought.
He knew one thing — this would be the beginning of his career. One article, and maybe even a series. And the city learns that under the bridges of Chicago today there was death itself. The one who leaves the puzzle. The one who cuts down the guilty. The one who works in the shadows.
Michael played the tape recorder and quietly said the first draft title for the article:
— «Jigsaw strikes again»... no... «Justice at the hands of serial killer Jigsaw»... no either...»
He thought for another second.
Then he smiled with only his eyes.
— «The Jigsaw Signature Reappears in Chicago: Police Baffled.»
Yes. It sounded provocative.
The morning began with the anxious booming voice of the host on a local TV station—it was heard in almost every home, office, radio or cafe in Chicago. The report was short, low-key, but coldly harsh:
«Woman's body found under Lower Wacker Bridge. A homemade trap was discovered at the site, reminiscent of devices associated with the so-called Jigsaw cases. Police are not disclosing details. The source gave us a photograph showing a metal structure —probably part of the murder weapon»
The video showed only blurry footage: blue and red reflections of flashing lights, a restriction tape, a bridge shield in the distance. No body, no blood — just a hint. This was enough for the whole city to wake up sharper than from coffee.
Frank Lundy sat by the window of an old cafe on the corner of Lake Street, slowly stirring sugar in a cup. He looked at the screen without surprise — rather with the tired attentiveness of a person who had seen such things before.
His eyebrows rose slightly when the announcer said:
«...this is the third murder with Jigsaw handwriting...»
Lundy exhaled quietly — not irritation, not fear. Rather, recognition of a fact.
— Third... — he muttered under his breath. — Too many for murders from one serial killer in such a short time.
He took a spoon, tapped it on the edge of the cup and leaned back in the seat. People around continued to have breakfast, poking around on their phones, and running around the news — but for Frank the city seemed to be quieter for a second.
— I need to call the director and officially join the investigation.
With these words, he took the phone out of his pocket and dialed the director's short number — the morning seemed to be just beginning.