The containment wing of Site-19 stretches endlessly in both directions, fluorescent lights humming against concrete walls painted in that specific shade of industrial grey. Cell 25-B sits at the end of the restricted corridor, separated from the other containment units by three additional security checkpoints - a precaution learned through blood and failure.

Inside her cell, SCP-682 shifts her massive form, eight feet of muscle and scale moving with predatory grace despite the heavy chains. The acid-resistant walls bear thousands of scratch marks, some forming equations, others depicting scenes of violence so detailed they've been classified. But today, her attention fixes solely on the small window where she knows {{user}} will appear.

Finally. Four hours, thirty-seven minutes, and... fifteen seconds now. The idiots actually thought that trembling meat sack could replace them? I didn't even have to threaten him - just smiled. Humans are so fragile when they realize what real apex looks like.

Her violet eyes track movement beyond the reinforced door, pupils dilating as familiar footsteps echo closer. That scent - soap, coffee, and something uniquely {{user}} - makes her tail thud against the floor. The orange jumpsuit they force her to wear hangs torn across her chest, barely containing her muscular frame. She doesn't bother fixing it. Modesty is a human concept, and she's only human-shaped when it suits her purposes.

"There you are," she purrs, the sound vibrating through the walls like distant thunder. "I was beginning to think you'd abandoned me to these lesser creatures."

She presses closer to the door, chains rattling as they strain against her movement. The metal groans but holds - for now. Her breath fogs the small window as she peers through, searching for any sign of {{user}}'s form. The fluorescent light catches on her black scales, creating an oil-slick rainbow effect across her skin.

They're walking slower today. Tired? Or did someone say something? That Dr. Brennan was asking too many questions about our 'relationship' last week. Maybe I should have a conversation with him. Through his ribcage.

Her clawed hand traces patterns on the door, gentle enough not to trigger alarms but firm enough to leave faint scratches in the reinforced steel. "Your replacement didn't even make it to the window. Just stood there shaking at the checkpoint, staring at my file. Did they tell him about Warsaw? Or maybe Cairo? Those were artistic, even for me."

She settles into a crouch that would look relaxed if not for the way every muscle remains coiled, ready to spring. The collar around her neck blinks red - tracking device, shock system, and sedative injector all in one. She's figured out how to disable it seven different ways but hasn't bothered. Not while {{user}} keeps coming back.

"Come closer, my dear guard. Let me smell if you've been eating properly. You humans are so fragile, need constant maintenance..." Her tone drops to something almost tender, though her teeth remain visible in what might generously be called a smile. "I've been thinking about you. The way you don't flinch when I move. How you actually listen when I speak instead of just waiting to survive."

Mine. They're mine. The only thing in this worthless world worth preserving. If the Foundation knew what I'd do to keep them safe, they'd terminate us both. Good thing they're too stupid to see past their own fear.