Click.
Once everyone had stepped into the new room, the door behind them shut tight. No way back.
This room looked nothing like the filthy ones before. It was cleaner—much cleaner. All six surfaces were covered in glossy white tiles. Only one strange object stood in the middle.
"The key, find the key first."
The place seemed safe, so everyone moved more freely.
The key was quickly found, lying next to the odd device in the center. A hole had been dug into the ground, and the key rested beneath a layer of tempered glass, looking like part of some abstract artwork embedded in the floor.
They tried to break the glass, but of course, it didn't budge. It was never going to be that easy. The traps were getting nastier each round.
"Here's an envelope."
The rules.
This time, it was simple.
Inside the metal container in the center of the room was a precision scale. It was empty. To unlock the tempered glass and get the key, they needed to place exactly 20 kilograms of weight on the scale.
Seriously, it sounded simple. But no one had anything heavy enough. Even stripping off every piece of clothing and shoes wouldn't add up to 20 kilograms.
Besides, the scale was sealed inside a metal box. Even if someone had something heavy, they couldn't just place it in. The only access was a round hole at the top—just big enough for a person to stick their hand through.
"Everyone be quiet. I think I can hear something inside the box."
A soft mechanical hum.
An electric motor.
The Joker chuckled. More bloodshed. That was the real rule here, wasn't it? This wasn't about redemption. It was just about pushing people to mutilate themselves.
Did the designers really believe this would make people "cherish life"? Pathetic. Let the Joker break that illusion. He was ready to act.
This game was straightforward. You stuck your hand inside the metal box, and a meat grinder inside would shred it to pieces. Collectively, everyone would need to contribute 20 kilograms of minced flesh to trigger the mechanism. Probably meant most would need to lose one arm—maybe someone would have to give up both.
Cruel game. But that was always how the Jigsaw's trials worked.
Live or die—it's your choice. You could always refuse the game and just die instead.
"Oh God!"
Everyone froze.
At least the previous games had left their limbs intact. But this one? Shoving your hand into a meat grinder? Just thinking about it made their guts churn.
"I'm done. I can't take it anymore. I'd rather die than put my hand into that thing!"
Finally, someone broke down and started crying. Loud, choking sobs.
No one had any courage left. Not even the lawyer. There was no clever trick to get around this one. It was either sacrifice or die.
No one dared go first.
Some just cried.
Crying meant they thought it was over. They didn't believe anyone would be insane enough to do it. Better to die quickly than suffer. Death seemed almost easier now.
While everyone panicked and cried, 30 more minutes ticked by.
Time was life, but still no one moved.
Even if someone was willing, it needed 20 kilograms of flesh. As long as even one person refused, they wouldn't succeed.
They were doomed.
The lawyer could tell just from looking—there was no way out. Unless... they killed someone.
Slaughter a person. Throw the entire body into the machine. That could work.
Suddenly, someone had that exact thought.
It was a slim chance at survival.
If they just killed one person, it might be enough.
There was no rule saying the 20 kilograms had to come from multiple people.
Murder.
Not just the lawyer. The guy with dyed rainbow hair thought of it too.
But thinking about it and actually doing it... were two very different things.
Harry had just watched a good show. He saw clearly now—this so-called Jigsaw game didn't make people cherish life. It only turned them cruel. Those who survived weren't grateful—they were just more savage. Right now, someone was already thinking about killing. No one wanted to die, and no one wanted to lose a hand. So, killing one person became the best option.
Of course, some were thinking further. There were still rules. Maybe if they killed someone, their collars would blow. So the safest path? Find a scapegoat. Push him to do it. If they got lucky, they might even end up with two corpses instead.
"Maybe you've already decided to kill someone to break the stalemate. I'm really looking forward to your performance." It was the Joker again, instantly drawing all attention to himself. "What? Am I wrong? Maybe you all haven't fallen far enough to actually kill someone… Then let me do it. I'm a killer. I don't mind doing the job—as long as you give me a target."
The Joker?! Just what they needed. A killer, at the perfect time. But… who to kill?
Harry noticed it again—every time the Joker spoke, suspicion bloomed. Just like in horror movies, where every supporting character ends up dead. And ever since he got injured in the first room, people had let their guard down around him. By now, everyone was starting to trust the Joker.
Maybe that was his plan all along. One step at a time, pulling them into his trap.
Now, he had them all in the palm of his hand.
By standing up now, the Joker wasn't just volunteering to kill—he was pushing them into turning on each other. He knew he wouldn't get the chance to do it himself. All it took was someone naming a target. The moment that happened, the target wouldn't just wait to die. A fight would break out. Maybe even a killing.
The Joker didn't need to do anything. Just watch.
And just like he expected, that's exactly how it played out. Everyone here had a criminal past. Given the chance, none of them wanted to die. Sure, some might accept their fate—when the timer hit zero. But being murdered before then? Not a chance.
If death came by fate, maybe they could accept it. But no way they'd let someone else take that time from them. Not even a minute.
In the first room, they'd still worked together. In the second, suspicion began. Now, in the third room, even their shared suffering couldn't hold them together anymore.
By the time the Joker offered to kill, the whole dynamic had shifted. Now it was: "employer," "killer," and "target." The Joker was the hitman. The others were the clients—or the prey.
The target would die by the Joker's hand. The employer and the killer would survive.
"You'd better choose fast. My time's expensive, you know? Once, someone offered me half of Gotham City to kill Batman." The Joker boasted, "So pick a target already. Hurry up!"
"Let's vote!" The lawyer stepped forward. "Choose someone, then raise your hand. If everyone agrees, it's done."
"Fine, I agree." The rainbow-haired guy nodded. One by one, the others agreed too. Now was the time to gamble with luck.
But in everyone's heart, the same silent hope: Don't let it be me.
While most were still deciding, rainbow-hair suddenly acted first. He pointed straight at the delivery guy. "I choose him. Raise your hand if you agree."
He raised his own hand first. The others looked at each other, hesitated, then slowly lifted theirs too. Better him than me. 'Sorry, man. May God bless you.'
"No! You can't do this!" The delivery guy was stunned. "You can't do this! Lawyer, say something!"
The lawyer's expression was complicated. Truthfully, he'd hoped to play rainbow-hair's role—to name him, the arrogant thug with a gangster father. But the guy wasn't stupid. He struck first and picked the delivery guy instead.
The delivery guy stared at the lawyer in disbelief. And then he saw it—his last hope fall apart—as even the lawyer slowly raised his hand.
In that moment, despair swallowed him whole.