The final game. The mysterious fourth room.
Each person had a metal chair with their name on it. These chairs were overly complicated. They all looked the same and had been personally designed by Jigsaw himself—his only directly designed tool in all the games. They were called the Bloodletting Chairs.
Each person's collar key was inside a copper tube next to their chair. The keys were made of lightweight metal, while the copper tubes were narrow, deep, and welded to the floor—completely immovable. To retrieve the key, they had to use the Bloodletting Chair.
The chairs were fitted with multiple rubber tubes that connected to the copper pipes. The chair would draw their blood, filling the pipe. Since the key was less dense than blood, it would float upward as the blood rose. Once the key surfaced at the top of the pipe, they could grab it.
Simple—just donate blood. But there was no escaping the punishment of a needle hell.
Each person had a chair. No exceptions. No shortcuts. No cheating. They had to sit and accept punishment, using their own blood to wash away their sins and recognize just how fragile life really was. So don't be careless. Don't waste it.
When Liu A'dou saw the device, he thought, 'If someone's lost their hands, how are they even supposed to give blood?' Then again, if both hands were gone, they wouldn't need a needle—the open wound would do. But clearly, not everyone had medical knowledge. Just sticking the needle into a vein was already a major hurdle.
"Whoa-whoa! Maybe I can help!" The Joker's voice rang out again.
Liu A'dou knew nothing good ever followed when the Joker spoke. But right now, they probably did need someone who understood basic hygiene and could help them draw blood.
The Joker was an expert at bloodletting—especially with blades—but he could use needles too. His seaweed-like hair swung in front of his face, partly hiding the cruelty in his eyes, but that twisted smile was more than enough to give anyone chills.
"If you want my help, raise your hand," he said.
Everyone except Liu A'dou needed help. They couldn't handle the needle.
"Oho! So our little lucky charm actually knows how to draw blood. Impressive," the Joker said mockingly. "But since your hands are injured, how about you let me handle it?"
"Your hands are injured too. Don't worry, I can manage this little task." Liu A'dou kept calm. "Let's skip the polite act, Joker."
Even with wounds that looked deep enough to expose bone, the Joker moved like nothing was wrong. His motions were precise, inserting the needle directly into the right vein without hesitation.
"Don't worry. You'll be fine in a moment," he said soothingly, just like a professional nurse. "One needle enough? I can do more if you like."
One was plenty. Sure, the chair was designed to have them stuck with needles all over their bodies, but no one wanted to look like a human pincushion. This would have to do.
Time was short—only 20 minutes left. They gripped the pumps tight, forcing the blood out of their bodies. No one cared how much blood was needed. They just wanted this damn game to end.
Every second slipping by drained more life from them. No one could stand the thought of dying like this. So they squeezed harder, forcing the blood to flow faster. Some even considered poking extra holes in themselves—but clearly, everyone was afraid of the needles.
Those needles on the Bloodletting Chair—there had to be hundreds. Plugging them all in would leave them skinned alive.
Anyone with trypophobia or a fear of sharp things was in the wrong place.
Still not enough. Not nearly enough. The copper tubes looked narrow but were actually deep, with a lot of capacity. The pump speed alone wasn't enough. Clearly, the game was forcing them to use more needles. But no one had the guts. They just kept praying one tube would be enough to finish in time.
But now the game was at its final stage, and once again, everyone forgot the real rule—only by hating themselves enough could they survive. After going through three brutal trials, they still didn't have the courage to stick a few more needles into their own flesh.
The Joker was the exception. While everyone else was drained to the point of collapse, he just laughed—loud, pointless laughter that filled the room. He had been doing it all along, mostly to draw attention, like a cough during a speech.
But this time was different. Instead of mocking words, he showed them something that made everyone freeze—the collar around his neck, undone. He had taken it off without shedding a single drop of blood.
Impossible. The copper tube was so narrow even five fingers couldn't fit inside. How the hell had the Joker gotten the key?
"Hahaha, it's not that hard. We all played with this as kids," he said with a smug grin, holding it up like a prize. "A magnet." His ring was made of magnetized metal.
"What?" Even Charlie and Luther outside were shocked. How could the Joker pull off something like this?
Foolish second-generation disciples of Jigsaw. Did they really think catching the Joker in Gotham City would be so simple? He had known the entire setup of the game long before. All he'd done was play along for the fun of it.
"A little trick," the Joker chuckled, glancing at the others. "But it works just fine."
"Joker, you had a magnet, why didn't you—"
"Why didn't I help you?" The Joker laughed, but this time it was real mockery, straight from the heart. "Why would I ever help you idiots?"
No one had an answer. Of course—why would the Joker help them?
"And besides that," he went on, his grin stretching wider, "I've got some good news for you. Turns out you might not have had to die. But now—congratulations. You're already dead."
The keys had already started to rise. If they just kept going, they could reach them. Compared to the first three games, this final trial was simple—painful, yes, but simple. Most people were terrified of needles. The earlier games had been about wasting time. Here, at the end, time was running out, and the only option was to jab themselves with more needles, maybe dozens, to draw out enough blood. That fear—the ordinary, sharp, needling pain—was worse than sticking your hand in acid. Imagine dozens of needles piercing you all at once. That was the real horror.
"Don't listen to the Joker's crap. We've still got ten minutes, we can do this!" the lawyer shouted, pumping the air bulb frantically. But it was useless. One needle bled too slowly. The keys weren't rising fast enough.
Someone finally cracked. They knew it wasn't enough. "Joker, help me!" the guy with the dyed hair shouted. "Stick me with two more—I don't want to die, I don't want to die!"
The Joker staggered toward him. "As you wish."
He grabbed a handful of needles and jabbed them into the man's body one by one, changing spots each time. His technique wasn't as precise now. The guy cried out, "Enough, enough!" The Joker knew anatomy too well—every needle found a vein. The man didn't want to bleed out too quickly.
The key rose faster. His face turned pale, but he was smiling.
Smiling, grinning uncontrollably. And then he realized something was wrong. He wasn't supposed to be this happy. Why couldn't he stop smiling? His face was locked, his tears streaming down, but his mouth kept stretching wider. "Joker… what did you do to me? Ha… ha… HAHAHA—"
"Just a little gift," the Joker whispered, watching with delight. "The best smile this world has to offer."
The man laughed until he couldn't breathe, gasping, choking, until his body gave out. He died with that insane grin plastered on his face.
The Joker raised his arms over the corpse, triumphant. "And that's why I told you you were all already dead. Not because of the game. Because of me."