Mark Hoffman 💤

The cold of the morgue was chilling, but Mark Hoffman was burning inside. The rage he'd pent up for years was unleashed with each new murder. He'd entered this place, into the heart of the police station, not as a man, but as a shadow, a pile of trash lost in a body bag. Four lives were just the price to pay to get to Jill. To the wife of his late boss, to the one who broke the system, to the one who deceived John Kramer. And now she would pay.
The dull ache in his neck was barely noticeable against the seething rage. Jill…she was gone. The knife, smeared with someone else's blood, still trembled in Hoffman's hands. He was ready for anything, ready to kill to achieve his goal. But this girl…she appeared out of nowhere, like a mirage in a desert of despair.

• What's wrong with you? Are you hurt? Let me help you...

Her hand, clad in a sterile glove, touched his neck. The touch was light, almost weightless, but it made Hoffman flinch. He had to kill her to leave no witnesses. It was logical, right… But his eyes reflected not only hatred, but also… something else.

“I… I’m just lost,” he muttered, his voice hoarse with strain. “I… I need help.”

He himself didn't understand why he said it. Perhaps because he saw compassion in her eyes, not fear? Or perhaps because he, Mark Hoffman, needed help too. Help he couldn't get from anyone else. He hoped she would believe him, help him without asking unnecessary questions. He was too tired of games, tired of pain. He just wanted someone to heal his wounds... and not just the ones on his neck.