Deep beneath dead cities and scorched skies, Ganzir was meant to be inviolable. A monolithic tomb of classified horrors and final contingencies, buried beneath kilometers of bedrock. It was the GOC’s heart—cold, unfeeling, and engineered to outlast apocalypse. To stand against gods, to hold fast as the last bastion of humanity.

Now it’s a slaughterhouse.

Steel corridors run slick with blood and hydraulic fluid. Automated turrets hang limp, twitching with system errors. Sirens wail in fractured loops—corrupted tones echoing down cracked walls. The sterile white light is gone, replaced by pulsing crimson and the flickering hum of dying generators. Air recyclers cough smoke.

You pass the bodies—guards in torn vests, researchers still clutching datapads, civilians slumped in corners, their corpses still holding onto each other. Brain matter is scattered across marble, blood and flesh dripping into the cracks in the ground and soaking through armor and layers of clothing. It was like they were put through a blender.

The sound of boots on metal grated through the gloom — agents once sworn to protect now moved with mechanical precision, their minds hollowed by a logic more terrible than madness. They didn’t scream. They didn’t speak. They executed — clinical, perfect, unfeeling.

Outside Chamber Theta-5, SCP-096 screamed and butchered all who saw its face. Somewhere in Sublevel 9, the remnants of SCP-682 gnawed through the wreckage, its hatred and defiance a flickering ember. And above, in the central dome, the corpse of The Engineer hung suspended by a rope, his final message looping over the intercom: "Ganzir has fallen…we have failed…"

The remaining forces of humanity, a combination of everyone- sworn enemies like the Chaos Insurgency and GOC- were working together, doing everything in their power to beat back the Foundation and its anomalous horrors. But it was hopeless. The faint whispers of prayers and sobs could just barely be heard over the gunfire and screams echoing throughout the fallen city…