Preface
The cold cement floor sent a chill straight through his jeans, but it was the heavy iron chain clamped around his ankle that made his heart hit his chest like a battering ram. His head pounded with a dull, throbbing ache.
The last thing he remembered was sitting on a barstool, ice clinking in a glass, knocking back a shot. Then nothing. Pure blackness.
Now, waking up in the dark, his breath came in short, panicked rasps. His eyes burned as he yanked his head side to side, trying to force his vision to adjust to the dim, heavy gloom. The smell hit him first—that thick, unmistakable scent of old mildew and damp concrete. Above him, the faint rumble of running water echoed through white PVC pipes running along the floor joists.
Nearby, a heavy water heater clicked and groaned, setting off a low hum. Then came the familiar, heavy click of an older central air unit kicking in—a classic Heil unit tucked into the corner of the basement. A sudden, sharp whoosh echoed through the dark as the burner ignited, casting a quick, fascinating blue flame through the viewport grate that momentarily danced against the far wall before the blowers took over, pushing a steady draft through the ductwork.
The mechanical noises were almost comforting, but the realization of where he was sent a wave of sheer terror down his spine.
“W-who’s there?” he called out, his voice cracking against the damp walls. He strained his ears, his body rigid, waiting for an answer in the dark.
From the top of the wooden stairs, a slow, steady footstep broke the quiet. No mask. No rush. Just the quiet, deliberate sound of someone who knew they were in complete control.
“Shhh... you’ll wake up the neighbors, and we wouldn’t want that, right?”
The voice was surprisingly smooth—almost sweet—dripping with a calm, gentle authority that made his skin crawl.
Her steps on the basement stairs were slow and rhythmic, the worn wood creaking under her boots with deliberate ease. When she stepped into the faint blue glow cast by the furnace burner, he didn’t see a hulking figure or a terrifying mask.
He saw her face. Bare, unbothered, and completely open.
Amanda Seyfried’s character—Red Jade—stood at the bottom landing, resting one hand lightly on the wooden banister. She tilted her head, watching him struggle against the chain with the quiet curiosity of someone observing a pet in an enclosure. There was zero anger in her eyes, no theatrical rage. Just an ice-cold, dead-eyed confidence that made the air feel instantly thinner.
“W-who are you?” he stammered, pulling back against the cold floor until his back hit the damp foundation wall. “What do you want from me?”
Red Jade let out a soft, almost pitying sigh. She didn’t move toward him. She didn’t need to.
“What do I want?” she echoed softly, her voice carrying through the hum of the central air. She took a step closer, her shadow stretching long across the concrete. “I want you to stop wasting your energy asking questions that don’t matter anymore. Your life up there? The bar, your car, your routine? That’s over.”
She leaned in just enough for the faint light to hit her eyes.
“You’re in my world now,” she whispered, her voice deadpan and steady. “And in my world, I control every breath you take.”
Before he could scream, a sharp, high-pitched plastic ring cut through the dark—not from a heavy rotary phone, but from the corner of the room. A bright, harsh red light began to pulse from the tiny plastic nose of a Fisher-Price chatter phone resting on a wooden crate. The painted eyes stared straight ahead, its blood-crusted red receiver practically vibrating against the plastic base.
Red Jade didn’t even flinch. She just smiled—a slow, terrifyingly calm smile—and looked from the ringing phone back to his face.
The red nose on the plastic chatter phone pulsed again, casting a harsh, rhythmic crimson glare across her face.
Red Jade walked over to the wooden crate with slow, effortless grace. She didn’t hurry. She reached down and lifted the blood-crusted red receiver, holding it up to her ear while her icy, unblinking eyes stayed locked right on him.
“Hello, Jason,” she said smoothly into the plastic mouthpiece, her voice carrying that same quiet, terrifying authority. “I knew it was you on the other side of the phone... just by your breathing.”
Jason froze, his heart hammering against his ribs as he stared at her holding the toy receiver. He tried to speak, but his throat felt dry, tight, and suddenly heavy.
“You have fifteen minutes,” Red Jade continued, her voice dripping with ice as she glanced down at a plain silver wristwatch on her arm, “before the poison in your body overtakes you.”
Jason’s eyes went wide. His mind raced back to the bar—the ice clinking, the shot glass sliding across the counter, the burning burn down his throat right before everything went dark. The throbbing in his head wasn’t just a hangover. It was the poison starting its work.
“W-what?” Jason choked out, yanking furiously at the iron chain, the metal clanking against the concrete floor. “What poison?! What did you put in me?!”
Red Jade slowly lowered the red receiver back onto the yellow plastic base. The bright red nose went dark, plunging the room back into the dim blue light of the furnace. She leaned against the crate, crossing her arms, watching his panic unfold with absolute detachment.
“The kind that doesn’t care how hard you fight,” she said softly, watching him gasp for air. “You spent your whole life thinking you were in control, Jason. Now, you get to spend your last fifteen minutes learning that you never were.”
“You’re lying,” Jason rasped into the receiver.
A sudden, violent cough wracked his chest, doubling him over. He pulled the phone back, hacking hard into his palm. When he pulled his hand away, his palm was wet and slick with dark, thick blood.
His breathing turned ragged as horror hit him all at once. “What type of Saw shit is this?!”
Over the receiver, Red Jade’s voice remained smooth, calm, almost amused.
“Ah... so you remember Saw 2. Excellent detective skills.”
Ending the preface right on her delivering that line leaves the reader completely hanging over a cliff! They’re left with the image of Jason staring at blood on his hands while a timer ticks down from 15 minutes.
