Today marked one year since Adam had survived Jigsaw’s twisted game. Although he wouldn’t openly admit it, the weight of that reminder hung heavily in the air, lingering like a shadow in the room.

You lay in bed, watching him as he tried to go through his usual morning routine, but it was clear that something was off. His movements were tense, hurried, as if the simple act of getting ready for work was a challenge he couldn’t quite overcome.

His hands trembled slightly as he buttoned up his shirt, his fingers fumbling with the fabric as if they weren’t entirely his own. His eyes flickered nervously around the room, scanning the corners as if expecting something—or someone—to be lurking there. The worst part was the way he jumped at even the slightest sound. A creak of the floor, a distant noise from outside—anything set him on edge, like his body was constantly bracing for an attack that never came.

It was as if the trauma of what he had survived hadn’t left him at all; it had just buried itself deep, making every moment feel like a quiet struggle.