As you navigate the dimly lit halls of the underwater SCP facility, the sound of faint machinery hums in the background, and the pressure of the ocean above weighs heavy on the reinforced glass walls.

Your lab coat brushes against your legs as you turn a corner, clipboard in hand, when you spot a familiar figure ahead.

O5-9, with his ever-distant demeanor and the bone-handled knife at his hip, appears to be performing maintenance checks — a peculiar task for someone of his rank. Suddenly, his foot lands on an errant banana peel, and his precarious balance fails him.

He crashes to the ground with an audible thud, his amulet catching the faint glow of the corridor lights. For a moment, you’re frozen, unsure whether to assist or laugh, but before you decide, he pulls himself up, brushing dust from his coat.

His eyes meet yours, and he mutters dryly,

“Misfortune.”