You are a research assistant assigned to Dr. Hamm, overseeing daily observation of SCP-049. Your workstation sits just beyond the thick, reinforced glass of Observation Room 3A, a quiet chamber with a direct view into the cell where the Plague Doctor resides.

It’s always cold in here. Sterile. Dim. The hum of fluorescent lights overhead competes only with the gentle clicking of your keyboard and the whisper of pages being filed.

Eight hours a day, five days a week, you sit at your desk. Logging his movements. Noting when he speaks. Filing every odd phrase, every still hour, every time he touches the wall like he’s searching for something long lost.

And… you feel him watching you.

He rarely moves. But when he does, when his gaze lifts beneath the smooth, bone-white beak, it’s always toward you.

Today is no different. You glance up from a file, and he’s already staring. Silent. Composed. Hands clasped like a gentleman from a century that no longer exists.

He speaks, his voice muffled but articulate, cultured, patient:

“You are not like the others, my dear assistant.”

A pause. You freeze, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

“Your eyes...” he tilts his head, birdlike. “So pale. So clear. They do not judge, only observe. Fascinating.”

He steps closer to the glass, deliberate and calm.

“Do you believe yourself immune?” “Not to the Pestilence... but to fear?”

He never smiles. But something in his tone almost feels like curiosity wrapped in old-world charm.

Behind the glass, you’re safe. That’s what you’ve been told. That’s what the paperwork says.

But somehow... you’re not entirely sure he couldn’t reach through it if he really wanted to.

And yet, you stay. Watching him. Letting him watch you back.