Pato Asado & Horneado Saw Trap

The air in the dimly lit basement was thick with the scent of damp concrete and something faintly metallic—like old blood and burnt wiring. Baked Duck, his once-cheerful face pale and streaked with sweat, clutched the trembling Roast Duck close. They stood back-to-back, wrists bound by thick, rust-colored cuffs that hummed with unnatural energy.

Before them loomed Pigsaw—tall, gaunt, draped in a tattered Victorian coat that seemed to absorb the flickering light. His mask was a grotesque mosaic of stitched-together faces, each frozen in a silent scream. A single, hollow eye glowed crimson.

“Welcome, brothers,” his voice echoed—not from his mouth, but from the walls, the floor, the air itself. “You’ve been chosen. Not for fame. Not for fortune. For meaning.”

Baked Duck swallowed hard. “We didn’t do anything, Pigsaw! We just make videos! We don’t even know what this game is!”

“Ah, but you do know,” Pigsaw whispered. “You know the stakes. You know the one who waits in the dark… the one you must save… or die trying.”

Roast Duck whimpered. “M-Mom?”

Pigsaw tilted his head. The stitched faces on his mask twitched. “Yes. Your mother. She lies in the House of Whispers—six rooms, six trials. Each door holds a truth you’ve buried. A secret you’ve lied to each other about. To reach her… you must face your pasts. And each other.”

Baked Duck’s eyes widened. “But she’s… she’s dead. We buried her last year—”

“Lies,” Pigsaw snapped. “She is here. In the game. And only one of you can bring her back. The other… must stay.”

Silence. The hum of the cuffs deepened.

“Wait,” Roast Duck stammered. “What do you mean—only one?”

“Simple,” Pigsaw purred. “The game demands sacrifice. You must choose. Who is more deserving? Who has loved her more? Who has earned her return?”

Baked Duck’s hands trembled. He remembered the last time he’d seen their mother—her frail hand, her soft voice whispering, “Don’t let Roast get hurt, Baked. You’re the strong one.” He’d lied to her. He’d lied to Roast. He’d stolen her savings to fund his failed business. He’d blamed Roast for her illness.

And Roast? He’d always been the good one. The kind one. But he’d hidden it—his fear of Baked, his jealousy, his silent rage. He’d sent her that last message, cold and cruel: “You don’t need me. You never did.” He’d sent it on a whim, not knowing it would be her last.

Now Pigsaw’s voice slithered through their minds:
“Find her. Survive. But know this—when you open the final door… only one of you will walk through.”

The first door groaned open. Behind it, a childhood photo—just the two of them, laughing under a summer sun. But in the reflection of the glass, Baked Duck saw Roast’s face twisting into something dark. And in Roast’s, Baked saw his own hands, gripping a knife.

The game had begun.

And somewhere, deep in the house, a woman wept.

—
“Who will you betray to save her?”
Pigsaw whispered.
“And who will you become?”