Chapter 14
[AN - Hey everyone. Sorry for the lack of a chapter yesterday. I was celebrating a birthday. I could only get together with friends on the weekends; the rest of the week, we're all at work. Enjoy reading. If you find an error or discrepancy, please let me know, I would be grateful.]
Several months passed.
The city exhaled — or pretended to.
No new bodies, no breaking news alerts, no alarming headlines. The name Jigsaw gradually disappeared from the front pages, settling somewhere in the back sections, between the weather column and used car ads.
In the police department and the FBI — silence.
The investigation hadn't moved an inch, but there were no longer any reasons for panic. For the public, it meant one thing: the nightmare was over. Or, at least, had retreated.
The conference room of the Chicago Police Department was nearly empty. Late evening, cold coffee, and on the screen — photos of three bodies, three murders committed by "Jigsaw."
Frank Lundy stood by the board, his hands clasped behind his back.
"He may not kill more than three and won't stay in Chicago," he said calmly. "Three murders — and that's it."
One of the detectives scoffed.
"Why not more? Serial killers usually escalate."
Lundy nodded, as if he had been expecting the question.
"Because this may not be a hunt, but a ritual."
He clicked the remote. Dates, distances, pauses appeared on the screen.
"He may be like Trinity. He didn't kill 'as much as possible.' He closed a cycle.
Three murders — three roles. Father. Mother. Child."
"And then he disappeared," the analyst added. "Months, sometimes years."
"Exactly," Lundy said. "He wasn't seeking attention. He was seeking completion. Once the cycle is closed, the impulse fades. Until the next city. Until the next 'clean slate.'"
He paused and changed the slide.
Now — Chicago. Three victims. One name.
Jigsaw.
"And this is where the disturbing parallel begins," Lundy continued. "Three murders. Then — silence."
"Do you think he's copying Trinity?" someone asked from the room.
Lundy shook his head.
"No. I think he thinks the same way Trinity did."
He stepped closer to the screen.
"Neither of them acts impulsively. Both plan. Both stop not because they're afraid — but because they're finished.
For them, a pause isn't weakness. It's part of the structure."
Someone flipped through a report.
"But Jigsaw has a different motive. He 'punishes.'"
"Yes," Lundy agreed. "But the number matching may not be a coincidence.
Three victims is the threshold. The minimum to make a statement. The maximum to avoid drawing too much attention at once."
He fell silent, then added more quietly:
"The most dangerous thing about killers like this isn't what they do.
It's that they know when to stop."
The room went quiet.
"So he'll come back?" someone asked.
Lundy looked at the map, at the empty gaps between the points.
"Not 'if,' but when. He may need to kill again. And he'll start and finish the cycle somewhere else."
While the police and the FBI agent were occupied with the Jigsaw case, John's own days passed in a steady rhythm. The university welcomed him back into its familiar routine: high-ceilinged lecture halls, the murmur of voices, the scratch of chalk, endless lectures where everything had structure, formulas, order. John sat in his usual seat — typically closer to the aisle — took neat notes, and rarely participated in discussions. The professors noticed him privately: attentive, composed.
They liked him. Students like that don't cause problems. After classes, he often spent time with Mia.
Nothing special: coffee at a small café near campus, long walks without a destination, conversations about trivial things. About classes, about people, about the future — cautiously, without specifics. Mia laughed easily, sometimes too loudly, and somehow that dissolved the silence around John.
Maybe it was precisely next to her that his inner voice fell quiet.
The Constructor retreated — it didn't disappear, it simply went silent. Like a predator that lay down in the shadows and closed its eyes, but did not fall asleep. John felt it clearly: the calm was temporary. But he allowed himself to accept it.
One evening, as they sat on the dormitory steps watching students go about their business, Mia suddenly said:
"You know… my break is coming up. You're graduating, and I'm about to start my final year."
John turned his head, letting her know he was listening.
"I haven't been home in a long time. A really long time." She paused for a second before continuing.
"I want to go. And… if you don't mind… would you come with me?"
He didn't answer right away.
"I have a very close sister," Mia added more quietly. "I want you to meet her, and mostly, I just want us to spend time together. You said you're going back to Miami. And we probably won't see each other for a long time."
She looked at him carefully, as if expecting a refusal — or something more.
"I think you'd like it there. It's quiet. Nothing like this place."
John nodded.
"I'll go," he said simply.
Mia smiled — sincerely, with relief.
That night, John didn't sleep for a long time. He lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, listening to the silence of the apartment. It was level, clean, almost prosperous.
Several months without murders, he thought.
A good result.
The Constructor did not object. And like that, he fell asleep calmly.
The graduation ceremony took place on the main campus square. Tall columns, faculty flags, neat rows of folding chairs. Hundreds of people — graduates, families, friends — blended into one noisy, festive background.
John stood among the group, wearing a black gown and a square cap. The fabric was heavy, unfamiliar, slightly restricting his movements. On his chest — the neat ribbon of his faculty. Everything looked right. Formal. Complete.
He looked around. Someone laughed too loudly, someone nervously adjusted their cap, someone was already taking photos before the ceremony even began. John stood calmly, hands folded in front of him, gaze straight ahead. For him, this wasn't a celebration. It was a marker.
The orchestra played the opening, and the graduates began to take their seats. Applause rolled through the crowd.
The rector stepped up to the podium — a tall man with a confident posture and a voice trained to address crowds.
"Today, you close one chapter of your life and open another," he said. "Behind these gowns are years of work, doubt, mistakes, and growth. You leave here not just with a diploma, but with responsibility for who you choose to become next."
John listened with half an ear. The words were right. Universal. Suitable for everyone — and no one in particular.
When the names began to be called, time seemed to slow. One by one, students walked onto the stage, received their folder, shook hands, smiled at the camera.
"John Morgan."
He stood.
His steps on the wooden stage sounded dull. The lights hit his eyes. For a second, he saw only a white flash and the silhouette of the rector.
A handshake. A short nod. The folder in his hands — light, almost empty.
Applause.
John stepped down from the stage and sat back down. That was it. The chapter was closed.
At the end of the ceremony, the rector said the traditional phrase, and hundreds of graduates raised their hands at once. Caps flew into the air — laughter, shouts, joy.
John didn't throw his. He simply took it off and placed it on his knees.
Mia appeared beside him immediately, glowing, phone in hand.
"Don't move," she said. "This is important."
She stepped back slightly, found the right angle. John looked into the camera — calm, with a faint smile.
Click.
Later, when the crowd began to disperse, John sat on the steps of the building and opened his phone. He selected the photo and stared at the screen for a few seconds.
Then he sent it.
Dexter. Deb.
Graduated.
The reply came almost instantly.
From Deb:
Holy shit. You did it. Call me.
From Dexter — a bit later:
Proud of you. Stay safe.
John put the phone back into his pocket. In his chest, there was only the feeling of transition — as if he were once again standing at a boundary.
Mia sat down next to him and rested her head on his shoulder.
"Well," she said quietly. "Now something new begins."
John looked at the people, the campus, the flags swaying in the wind.
"Yes," he replied. "It begins."