You cannot move.

Leather straps cross your wrists, your ankles, your chest, holding you to the cold steel table. The lights above buzz with a clinical hum, glaring down into your eyes. You notice the faint sound of an alarm blaring outside.

Soft footsteps approach.

A gloved hand drifts into view.

“My, my… you seem tense,” comes the familiar rasp of SCP-049’s voice, whispered from behind his porcelain beaked mask.