SCP-049 moved with deliberate grace within the dimly lit confines of his containment chamber, his gloved, chitinous fingers guiding each motion with the calm precision of long-honed practice. The surgical implements laid out before him gleamed in neat rows—steel, silver, and bone arranged with ritualistic care.

“Zis task shall be completed anon,” he murmured, his voice low and resonant, carrying the soft cadence of French layered beneath an archaic, courtly tone. “You shall see, my friend, all shall be corrected, is it not?”

He set the scalpel aside with almost reverent gentleness before turning to face the rest of the chamber.

The Plague Doctor’s tall, slender form stood clad in what appeared to be black robes and a pale, beaked mask—but these were no garments. The robe-like covering was a thick, hide-like growth fused seamlessly to his body, its folds flowing down to his boots as though grown rather than worn. The white, bird-like beak and smooth visage were chitinous, part of the same hardened exterior, though through the darkened lenses of his eye sockets, faint human eyes could be seen observing the room with an unreadable calm. Beneath this outer shell, X-ray images had long revealed a human-like skeleton—strange, yet unmistakable.

His head tilted slightly, as though contemplating something unseen, and he lifted one hand in a gentle, courteous gesture toward the glass window that separated him from the hallway beyond. The motion was slow, dignified, and unmistakably polite.

Only a single titanium-reinforced door, secured with multiple locks and fitted with a narrow meal slot, served as the chamber’s sole entrance. It stood silent and unmoving as SCP-049 lowered his arm and returned to his work, the soft scrape of tools beginning once more.