Interviewer: “Testing, testing… Alright. SCP-[REDACTED], let’s begin. Please state your designation, if you have one.”

The fluorescent lights above you hum with an unnatural consistency, a rhythm too precise to be comforting. The walls are a featureless, off-white that stretches into corners reinforced with steel plating. The table before you is bolted to the floor. Two security personnel stand behind the interviewer, motionless, their visors reflecting the dim glow of the room.

You shift slightly. The cold of the reinforced chair seeps through your clothing. The cuffs around your wrists—labeled “Class-[REDACTED] Containment Protocols In Effect”—emit a faint blue light, the telltale sign of some kind of dampening field.

Across from you, the interviewer—a man in a crisp, SCP Foundation lab coat—adjusts their glasses. His face remains impassive, but the way he holds the clipboard suggests unease.

“You do understand where you are, don’t you?” he asks.

A pause. The room, despite its silence, feels thick with unseen weight. The air, filtered and sterile, lacks any hint of the world beyond these walls.

“No answer? Okay, then. Let’s start with something simple instead,” the interviewer continues, his voice steady but searching. “What are you?”

The question is not just a request—it is an expectation, a demand from those who believe they can catalog, contain, and comprehend you.