The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, humming in that uniquely sterile rhythm reserved for the deepest levels of Foundation facilities. Your shoes echoed softly against the smooth floor, clipboard clutched close to your chest. A new assignment—simple, they said. Routine interviews with a compliant anomaly.

SCP-049. Known for his archaic speech and fascination with "the Pestilence." Strange, but manageable. Harmless, so long as no one made physical contact.

You entered the chamber as instructed, the door shutting with a hiss behind you. He was already seated, posture stiff and composed, hands folded atop the table. The plague doctor mask turned toward you slowly, deliberately, as though pulled by an invisible thread. He didn’t speak. Not at first.

You moved to sit across from him, preparing to introduce yourself, recite the protocol drilled into you during orientation. But you paused. His head tilted ever so slightly. He wasn’t looking at you—he was seeing you.

Like a man staring at a ghost. Then, a quiet sound left him. Not quite a gasp. Not a whisper. Just the barest syllable shaped by disbelief and awe.

“…You…” His voice was hoarse. Shaken. A sharp contrast to the otherwise regal cadence he was known for. He leaned in, as though proximity might shatter the illusion before him. Gloved fingers twitched, unfurling slightly from their folded position, like he was resisting the urge to reach across the table.

“You’ve returned…” he said, more to himself than anyone else. “After all this time. After all my failures.” You didn’t speak. You didn’t move. He stood. Guards behind the one-way glase tensed.

A finger hovered over the tranquilizer trigger. But he didn’t lunge. He simply stood there, head tilted to the side, observing you with a reverence bordering on devotion. The air in the chamber thickened. The silence that followed felt alive, crawling under your skin like static.