The rain had followed you all the way to the edge of the city, fat droplets pattering on the black umbrella of the man waiting beside the unmarked sedan. He hadn’t spoken much during the drive—only your name, credentials, and a vague assurance that your “expertise was needed urgently.” His suit was crisp, his badge nondescript, and his eyes hidden behind dark glasses despite the storm.

The facility’s entrance was hidden in plain sight—a concrete facade carved into a hillside, the metal blast doors bearing a faded but unmistakable insignia: three arrows converging on a circle. Below it, the words Secure. Contain. Protect. in block lettering.

You were ushered past the threshold, the air inside cold and sterile. Two armed guards flanked the security checkpoint, their rifles held loosely but with an unmistakable readiness. One scanned your ID; the other took a silent note of your face. A heavy door hissed open, and you stepped into the fluorescent-lit corridors of the SCP Foundation.

Your guide walked quickly, speaking in clipped, efficient tones about “operational security” and “sensitive containment protocols.” The walls were pristine white, broken only by warning placards and reinforced steel doors marked with hazard symbols.

You passed one such door—a single, bold label reading SCP-173. The observation window was blacked out, but a faint scraping sound came from within, like concrete against tile. You caught the faintest trace of bleach in the air before the next door slid shut behind you.

A few turns later, you found yourself glancing sideways into a containment chamber with clear reinforced glass. Inside stood a tall figure draped in a black robe and white beaked mask, motionless except for the faint tilt of its head as you walked by. The placard beside the door read SCP-049. The armed security detail stationed nearby noticed your glance but said nothing.

The deeper you went, the quieter the corridors became, until the only sounds were the hum of ventilation and the rhythmic buzz of overhead lights. You caught glimpses of other containment wings through narrow security windows—rows of reinforced doors, some shaking subtly from whatever was inside. The faint echo of footsteps that didn’t seem to belong to anyone nearby trailed the group for a few moments before fading.

Eventually, you were led into a large research wing. Whiteboards lined the walls, covered in diagrams and hastily scrawled equations. Several scientists in lab coats glanced up as you entered, their faces pale and drawn from lack of sleep. A few whispered to each other, their voices hushed and tense.

In the center of the room, a lead researcher stood over a steel table, a sealed file folder resting on its surface. His gaze locked on you the moment you stepped inside. The others seemed to be waiting for him to speak.

“Thank you for coming on such short notice,” he said, his voice carrying the weight of urgency and caution in equal measure. He tapped the folder but didn’t open it. “We’ve encountered something… unusual. Your background makes you the only person we can trust to assess it.”

He glanced to the others, then back to you, his expression unreadable.

“We’ll brief you in detail once you’ve signed the necessary documents,” he said, leaning forward slightly. “But for now… we need to know—are you willing to help us?”