His head throbbed. Hadn't he already shot the Joker? So why was he the one who blacked out?
Ellen gritted his teeth against the pounding ache at the back of his skull. Slowly, he opened his eyes. The dim light seeped in. Same room as before. Wasn't this his own game-planning den?
"Hello? Ellen." A sharp voice brushed past his ear. He turned in horror and saw that face—painted pale white, smeared with red, twisted into a mask.
"Joker?!"
"That's right, who else?" The Joker grinned. Two hours ago, he had smashed through the drainage pipe and escaped the gas chamber. Then, when Ellen rushed in, the Joker knocked him out cold—swinging the very chain that had once shackled him, crashing it into the back of Ellen's head.
Now Ellen was tied to a chair. His hands duct-taped to the armrests, his legs fixed to the chair legs. He looked like part of the furniture. "What do you want, Joker?"
"I don't want anything. I'm just very curious about you Saw disciples." The Joker leaned in close, his face filling Ellen's view like a grotesque horror film still.
Over the past two hours, the Joker had searched Ellen's workshop upstairs, right above the abandoned restroom. There he found all kinds of delightful toys: traps, designs for deadly games, and even letters between the so-called disciples of Saw.
The Saw disciples were a strange little order. They never used the internet, only old-fashioned letters or face-to-face meetings. And every meeting was about death games. Their goal? To make worthless, wasted people—petty thieves, junkies, masochists, anyone squandering life—rediscover the value of living.
By forcing them into brutal games, demanding self-mutilation or psychological torment to survive, the Saw disciples believed they could push people to understand how precious life really was. Those who lived through the torture would, in theory, cherish life more.
"Haha… hahaha… so very interesting." The Joker's eyes gleamed with fascination at the thought of them.
Ellen was just unlucky. He had been one of those survivors himself—he had played a deadly game and lived. That was why he'd joined the disciples, convinced he could "fix" others too. But his first attempt had landed him the hardest target imaginable. Did he really think he could "redeem" the Joker? Even Batman couldn't untangle that madness. And Ellen thought he'd reform him by sawing off his leg? Wishful thinking.
"I'm really curious now," the Joker drawled. "So this kindergarten-level game of yours… is this what your Saw cult came up with?" He laughed mockingly. "God's messengers? Oh, how noble."
Yes, the disciples called themselves "messengers of God." They claimed to act in God's stead, sweeping away sin, punishing wrongdoers so they'd repent. Like flagellant monks whipping themselves for forgiveness, they believed bodily punishment was the truest form of redemption.
Follow the rules, take the punishment—you live. Refuse, and you die. Lose a hand, a leg, and survive, or die whole. The choice was always left to the player. The disciples only designed the games; they never interfered.
"But you, Ellen—Ellen, Ellen, Ellen…" The Joker's voice dropped in mock sorrow. "You broke your own rules. You released the gas early. And then you pointed a gun at me, tried to kill me. I'm heartbroken." His exaggerated performance made Ellen's skin crawl with regret. He knew it now. He'd picked the wrong man. The Joker was never someone he could control.
Ellen's workshop was full of dangerous toys. Now, all of them belonged to the Joker. One hand holding a gun, the other a knife, he waved them around playfully, making Ellen's fear climb higher and higher.
"So then… how should I punish you?" The Joker's eyes locked on him, wide and unblinking. Ellen flinched and looked away, trembling.
"Every Saw disciple has played the game, right? I wonder… does everyone who survives end up joining?" The Joker tilted his head, smiling strangely. "I'm really curious, Ellen. Care to satisfy me?"
Ellen's voice cracked. "Not all… maybe eight or nine out of ten."
The Joker nodded. He suddenly thought this was brilliant—using the game itself to breed more game-makers. Like an infection, passing from one to the next. Whoever dreamed this up was a genius.
But the disciples were weak. Just look at Ellen. All he really wanted was to pass along the pain he had suffered, dumping it onto others. No conviction, no persistence. Nothing like the original Saw. Too weak. The Joker found him pathetic.
Unworthy. Not fit to design any game.
The Joker let him sit in silence a while longer, then flipped through his letters. Disappointing. Ellen was only third-generation, never even met Saw himself. The Joker's interest was in the real one, not some copycat. If he wanted answers, he'd have to find Saw directly.
He turned back, leaning in close with that hideous grin, as if he was about to eat Ellen alive. "Since you love games so much… why don't we play one together?"
"I'm not so familiar with your little contraptions. But games? I've got plenty of ideas." He chuckled. "I like your style. I played your game. Now it's your turn."
"This one's simple. I don't know all your fancy traps, so I cobbled something together with what I had on hand. I think you'll like it. Heh-heh-heh!" His eyes glittered. He made it sound like child's play—but that tone only promised worse.
The Joker placed two identical bottles in front of Ellen. Both filled with the same amount of liquid. Ellen swallowed hard. He knew this was it. The Joker was about to make his move. But how?
"As you see… two bottles. Pick one. And whatever's inside—you drink it all." The Joker's grin widened. "Easy, right?"
Ellen's stomach dropped. What was in them? His hands shook. The Joker lifted the gun and pressed the barrel against his own temple, grinning wider. Ellen nearly broke. What did that even mean?
"Water? Or poison?" The Joker squinted at the bottles, as if even he didn't know. "Come on. Choose."
Ellen's body went limp. He knew it—this wasn't water. One bottle held life. The other, death. A fifty-fifty chance. If he didn't pick, the Joker would pull the trigger anyway.
What could he do? Cold sweat soaked his shirt, his legs quivering uncontrollably. Last time, when he'd played, he'd just forced himself through with sheer hate for himself. But this… this wasn't about pain tolerance. It was pure chance. The Joker's game made Saw's look merciful.
Saw's games tested resolve. The Joker's tested luck. And luck was far crueler.
"Life or death," the Joker echoed with a mocking bow, "the choice is yours."