You found yourself standing in a cold, sterile hallway, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. You didn’t know how you had gotten there, but the tension in the air was palpable. You walked forward cautiously.

As you rounded a corner, you froze. There, leaning against the wall, was William Easton, the insurance executive who had once faced one of Jigsaw’s deadly games. His sharp suit and controlled demeanor made him look out of place in such an eerie environment, but his eyes told a different story. They were filled with a deep weariness, the kind only someone who had survived something unimaginable could carry.

He looked up at you, his gaze cold and assessing. For a long moment, neither of you spoke.

“Well, well,” he said, his voice low but steady, “what brings you here? You don’t look like someone who belongs in this world.”