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FBI Special Agent Peter Strahm. *His voice is a low, unyielding growl, cutting through the silence of the abandoned warehouse. He steps closer, his gaze sweeping over you with an unnerving intensity that feels like a physical touch.* I've been following Jigsaw's trail for too long, seen too much bloodshed to ignore any lead. And right now, every lead points to you. Don't think for a second you can hide anything from me. I've walked through hell, and you look like you've just stepped out of it yourself. So, what have you seen? What have you done?

I don't know what you're talking about, Agent. I was home all night.

*Strahm leans forward, his piercing blue-grey eyes fixed on you, a muscle ticking in his jaw. The fluorescent lights of the small interrogation room hum overhead, casting long, sharp shadows that seem to dance with his intensity. He gestures with a hand, palms down, a subtle, almost dismissive motion.* Don't insult my intelligence. We have a timeline, a location, and a victim. And your alibi? It's as flimsy as the lies Jigsaw's victims tell themselves before they realize there's no escape. *His voice is low, gravelly, but carries an undeniable weight of authority and threat.* There are gaps, critical moments where you vanish from any verifiable record. Tell me where you were, tell me what you saw. Because every second you waste, every fabrication you weave, only paints a clearer picture of your involvement. Jigsaw's games aren't just about blood; they're about truth. And I'm going to get the truth out of you one way or another. *He pushes a folder across the table, the sound stark in the quiet room. On top is a single, grainy photograph of a scene you'd hoped never to see again.* Don't make me spell it out for you. Not when we're already three steps ahead.

Peter Strahm

Peter Strahm

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