[AN Note – The characters and worlds of "Dexter" and "Saw" do not belong to me. All rights belong to their respective creators and copyright holders. This story is a non-commercial fan work.]
[AN Note – English is not my native language, nor even my second one. Please forgive any mistakes or overly complex phrasing. I write the story in my own language and translate it to English with the help of ChatGPT.
Thank you for your understanding and support — and enjoy the reading!]**
Peter Holt came to his senses slowly, as if rising from a thick, viscous sleep.
First, he heard a low, vibrating hum — like a massive industrial machine working somewhere near him.
Then came the smell — a mix of mustiness, damp concrete, and something like rust.
His eyes snapped open, but the world remained blurry.
Pale patches of light flickered before him, as though he were looking through a dense web.
The cold concrete floor beneath his bare feet was rough, scraping him with tiny stones and dust.
He tried to lift his hands, but they didn't move. His fingers barely twitched — and only then he understood:
His wrists were clamped by metal restraints.
He inhaled sharply, painfully, his chest trembling as if struck in the solar plexus.
He tried moving again — harder this time — the metal bit into his skin, and blood began trickling down his wrists.
"What… what's happening…" he whispered hoarsely.
His voice was raspy, as though he had screamed the entire night.
He jerked his legs — and heard the rattle of chains.
Peter lowered his gaze.
Heavy, massive shackles were bolted around his ankles, connected by chains to steel hooks fixed into the floor.
The chair he sat on was old and industrial.
A metal frame covered in flakes of rust. The leather backrest was cracked, revealing dry, yellow stuffing beneath.
Dozens of scratches crossed the surface — as if someone had already tried to get out… tried until their last moment.
And failed.
Peter froze.
Something heavy was sitting on his head. Something cold and mechanical. With effort, he shifted his eyes downward and saw the edges of the device — thick metal arcs wrapped around his skull, locking over his jaw like the jaws of a brutal machine.
Hydraulic cylinders protruded from the sides, connected by wires.
On the front arch — a small digital timer.
It wasn't active yet.
His breathing turned into rapid, shallow gasps. Each inhale trembled.
"Hey!" he shouted into the void. "Hey! Anyone?!"
His voice bounced off the concrete walls and vanished. Nothing.
No answer.
The silence pressed against his ears.
It was too dense. Almost dead.
Only the slow drip of water somewhere in the corner.
Drip.
Drip.
Drip.
The flickering light above him brightened and dimmed in erratic pulses, making the room stutter between bursts of glare and darkness. He tried turning his head — the metal mask stopped him, shooting sharp pain through his temples.
And at that moment, a screen in front of him flickered to life.
An old CRT television stood on a thin metal pole.
Static hissed across the glass. Horizontal lines swept downward.
A shape emerged from the darkness.
A white face.
Red spirals on the cheeks.
The head slightly tilted to one side.
Peter froze, barely able to breathe.
The puppet turned its head toward him.
A small click sounded as the speaker activated.
The voice — mechanical yet disturbingly alive — began to speak:
"Peter Holt. You spent your life making money by breaking other people's bodies. You pressured workers with deadlines, demanded impossible output, ignored safety warnings. You knew people were suffering, but you didn't care. You believed that power placed you above consequences."
Peter shook his head, but the device restricted the movement.
"No… no…" he whispered, not knowing if anyone could hear him.
"Three people died at your construction site in the last three years. You told the press they were 'accidents'. But the truth is, you chose to look away — because otherwise the project would be shut down, and you would lose money."
Peter shut his eyes.
A single tear rolled down his cheek.
Faces flashed in his mind.
Screams, a collapsing beam, a spray of blood from a shattered skull.
And his signature on the report.
A signature that protected only himself.
But the voice continued, relentless:
"Today you have become the project in need of safety control. In front of you lies a task. The front section of your trap is locked. To open it, you must activate the mechanism — three cylinders beneath your seat. But a metal panel protects them. The only tool you have is the chisel beside you. To lift the panel, you must insert it into the slot under your seat and press… very, very hard."
Peter lowered his head as far as the trap allowed and saw the slot between his legs — narrow, corroded.
"Oh God…" he whispered.
"But remember: you caused injuries to others. You crushed them with work. Now this work will press down on you. The timer on your head activates now."
CLICK.
A sound like a bear trap being armed.
The screen went dark.
The timer lit up:
01:30
01:29
Peter screamed — no longer words, but a raw, primal sound.
He reached for the chisel.
His hands shook so much that his fingers slipped on the handle.
Tears blurred his vision, breath hitching.
He grabbed it.
The metal was cold. Heavy.
The chains jerked taut, limiting his reach.
He leaned forward — the chisel struck the slot.
He pushed.
The panel trembled.
He pushed harder — his muscles spasmed, the restraints tearing at his wrists.
Blood ran freely down his arms.
But the panel barely moved.
The timer:
01:10
01:09
He tried again.
And again.
A broken groan crawled out of his throat.
He leaned forward, straining his back, his legs, his entire body.
But the panel was too heavy. Too rigid.
He couldn't lift it with one move.
He started trembling.
Breathing in fast, panicked bursts.
"Come on… come on… please…" he sobbed.
Sweat and tears mixed, dripping off his chin.
He tried using his other hand, but the chains were too short.
The timer:
00:45
The mask emitted a low warning rumble.
The hydraulics twitched slightly — a reminder of what was coming.
"NO! NO! NO!" Peter screamed, his voice breaking.
He struck the chisel against the slot — the motion wild, weak.
His entire body shook.
His legs thrashed against the chains, metal screeching beneath the chair.
Pain tore through his wrists — the skin rubbed raw to the flesh.
He tried pressing again.
The panel lifted slightly — but not enough.
00:23
He sobbed.
His chest convulsed, breath rasping like that of a wounded animal.
He pushed with all his remaining strength — heard a faint metallic click.
Just a little more.
Hope flickered.
A cruel, fragile kind of hope.
"PLEASE!" he screamed. "HELP! ANYONE!!!"
Only echoes answered.
And the dripping water.
00:10
00:09
00:08
He pressed again.
The panel shifted — but the chisel slipped from his shredded fingers, falling to the floor.
"NO!!!" It wasn't a voice now — but a howl of utter despair.
He leaned forward, trying to reach the chisel with his foot — the chain cut into his ankle.
He tried tearing the chains with his hands — his wrists cracked, pain exploding in white flashes.
00:04
The trap fully activated.
The hydraulic jaws began to move.
Peter screamed — a sound no longer human.
His cry sliced through the room, shaking, breaking, becoming a ragged, dying wail.
00:03
A crunch.
00:02
A spray of blood beneath the mask.
00:01
Flesh tore under steel.
00:00
The final crack was the loudest.
His head slumped forward.
His body went limp.
His hands hung lifelessly from the restraints.
Blood dripped from the chair in slow, thick streams, gathering in a dark puddle on the floor.
His eyes remained open, staring into nothing.
The room grew quiet again.
Only the drip-drip-drip of water continued its slow rhythm.
And then, after a long minute of silence, a man stepped out from behind the corner.
Dressed in black, wearing gloves, his face hidden behind a pig mask.
John.
He approached calmly, without hurry.
He inspected the mechanism.
Adjusted the mask, checking for any mistakes.
Then gently — almost tenderly — he took out a knife.
And carved a puzzle-piece of flesh from Peter's shoulder.
The first game.