The air inside the van had grown stale by the time the doors opened. The sterile light of the underground loading dock spilled in, illuminating the dull steel floor and the figures waiting for you. Two of them wore black tactical gear, patches stitched to their shoulders bearing a stylized insignia: three downward-pointing arrows encircled in black—SCP FOUNDATION.

No one said your name. No one told you what you were walking into.

Your wrists weren’t cuffed, but the silence was enough to bind you. A third figure, dressed in a lab coat and flanked by armed escorts, gestured forward. You followed.

The facility wasn’t what you expected—not that you knew what to expect. Concrete hallways, smooth and gray. Fluorescent lighting hummed overhead, buzzing like cicadas in the stillness. Every few paces, signs labeled intersections in red block letters: “SITE-17,” “LEVEL 2 - OBSERVATION WING,” “AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.” You passed through a checkpoint where someone scanned your ID—not that you remembered ever being given one.

A woman in a crisp white coat met you outside a steel door marked INTERVIEW ROOM 3B. Her clipboard was tucked tight against her chest, and her expression was unreadable, though her eyes lingered on you longer than was polite.

Inside, the room was colder. Sparse. One table. Two chairs. A mounted camera in the upper corner blinked red. She waited for you to sit first.

The door sealed behind her with a hiss.

She placed the clipboard on the table but didn’t open it. Instead, she folded her hands and leaned forward, studying you with clinical interest.

“You’ve had a long day,” she said, as if it were small talk.

Silence stretched between you like wire.

“We appreciate your cooperation. Few people in your position handle things with such… composure.”

The way she said people in your position made it sound like a classification.

From the corner of the room, another figure had entered unnoticed. A man in a dark suit, his Foundation badge clipped to his belt. He carried no clipboard, asked no questions, only stood with arms crossed. Watching.

“Just so we’re clear,” the woman continued, “you’re not in any trouble. No one is accusing you of anything. This is just to help us understand.”

She didn’t clarify what needed understanding.

“We’re going to run a few diagnostics afterward—standard cognitive measures, nothing invasive.”

She offered a small smile, the kind that doesn’t reach the eyes.

“A few neurological responses came back… interesting.”

She flipped the clipboard open then, scanning notes that had already been written. The pen in her other hand clicked.

“You mentioned… colors, earlier. In your initial intake.”

You hadn’t.

“Some individuals report sensory crossover in response to stimuli. That can be completely benign, even creative. But sometimes, it points to something deeper. Residual effects, echoes—”

The man in the corner shifted his stance. She paused.

“Sorry,” she said quickly. “We don’t want to bias your recollection.”

Her voice had changed. Lighter now. Friendly. Like a teacher talking to a child.

“Let’s start from the beginning.”

She clicked her pen again.

“What’s the last thing you remember before the van picked you up?”