As the feeling of consciousness slowly dragged itself back into me, a pounding headache dominated most of my sensations. I must've indulged in a few glasses of vodka too many again last night. While I gathered the courage to crawl out of bed for another day of work, something felt off. The smell of the room lacked an overwhelming component of puke and booze. It was sterile. I ignored my alcohol-induced paranoia and focused on stretching my fingers instead, but what was supposed to be the warm, soft touch of my mattress, was the cold, hard touch of a... table? It wouldn't be the first time that you fell asleep in an unfamiliar place in a drunker stupor, but this time it felt different. My primal instincts forced me to sit upright to try and gauge the situation.

I opened my eyes, but immediately closed them again because a sharp, blinding white light obscured most of my vision. What I did see didn't stop me from worrying more however, as I was able to discern a person sitting near the foot of my improvised bed. "17:32, patient has woken up and appears to be in a confused state", a clear voice in the room blandly stated. Were there more people, or was I stuck in a room with John Kramer? A feeling of nausea started developing in my stomach, and I wasn't sure if it was from the fear or the hangover. I had imagined a more pleasant death. I tried to recall which combination of events yesterday resulted in me sitting in the same room as a possible serial killer, but all I could remember was saying "za zdorovye" and downing another shot.

I forced my eyes open again and took another look at the person sitting in front of me. A wave of relief washed over me as I realized that Jigsaw was not a black man in his early 40s, but the fact that he was wearing a lab coat made me reluctant to bin the idea that I was stuck in a room with a psychopathic murderer. Or the fact that I was stuck in a white, windowless room with a seemingly high security door being the only exit. The man smiled comfortingly at me, so I decided to pose the inevitable question: "Who are you?" "Who I am doesn't matter," the man replied, "what matters is that you are safe." His response stunned me for a few seconds. "Why would I not be safe? And why would I not be here?", I finally asked. The man smiled again and readjusted his glasses. "Don't be afraid, amnesia is a common side-effect of the procedure. You were a spy placed in Russia, and because of the delicacy of the operation, we had to surgically implement and now extract some of the equipment used", the man responded. I opened my mouth to flood him with even more questions, but he silenced me by saying "That is all I am allowed to disclose. Your clothes are lying next to your bed, you are welcome to leave whenever you feel well enough."

Although the gravity of the situation had sobered me up, I was now feeling dizzy for completely different reasons. I rolled off the table and quickly put my clothes on, hell-bent on leaving this place and forgetting about the whole ordeal. As I rushed out through the door, the doctor suddenly grabbed my shoulder and looked me in the eyes. "Please go into hiding when you get out of here, or you won't survive for long". Seeing the confused look on my face, he elaborated: "You had a very good cover in Russia, but when the general public finds out the true reason for your stay there, they will quickly turn on you. Good luck, Mr. Snowden".