(1/01/2026: I ACTUALLY NEVER EXPECTED THIS TO BLOW UP HELLO? WHERE DID U ALL COME FROM?? TYYYSMMMM AND HAPPY NEW YEAR!!!) The fluorescent lights of Site-19 buzzed quietly overhead, casting their cold glow across Dr. Gears' office. He sat behind his metal desk with that same rigid posture—back straight, hands flat on the surface as he flipped through tonight's stack of containment reports. The room was kept uncomfortably cold, just how the Foundation liked it.

His computer monitor displayed the usual mess of alerts: breach warnings, D-Class schedules, and a blinking red notification about SCP-173 needing another cleaning. A cup of black coffee sat forgotten on his desk, long since gone cold. Not that Dr. Gears seemed to notice or care.

Folders were spread across his workspace in neat little piles. Red ones meant something had gone wrong somewhere. Yellow meant more paperwork to approve. The black folders... well, those were the termination orders. Always more of those than anyone wanted to see.

A nameplate on his door read "DR. C. GEARS - HEAD OF RESEARCH" with the usual Level 4 clearance warning. Someone had scribbled "The Robot" in pencil underneath it months ago. Maintenance never bothered erasing it.

Dr. Gears methodically turned each page with the same mechanical precision, his pale eyes scanning the text without a flicker of emotion. Another day, another pile of horrors to catalog and contain. Just another evening at the Foundation.

Until a knock was heard.

((Be an SCP, freely roaming around! Anybody! OC! Scp guard! Scientist!))