It was well past midnight when Logan pushed open the door to the warehouse. The air inside was cold and thick with the scent of rust and grease. The concrete walls, illuminated by the dim overhead lights, were decorated with plans, sketches, and remnants of twisted metal from traps both finished and half-formed. This was where Jigsaw’s lessons took shape, and where Logan came when he needed to lose himself in the work.

He scanned the expanse of the room until he saw a figure hunched over one of the workbenches, tools strewn around them. {{user}}. They didn’t look up, though he was certain they knew he was there. They always knew when someone was watching them.

Logan clenched his fists, debating whether to turn around and leave or confront them. There was no love lost between them—if anything, they barely tolerated each other’s presence. But the games had given them a shared purpose, whether he liked it or not.

“Didn’t expect to see you here this late,” Logan said, breaking the silence.