Your wrists are bound. The restraints hum faintly against your skin, their cold metal pulsing with energy that seeps into your bones. Whatever they’ve done to you, whatever technology they’ve devised, it keeps you subdued—docile, but not powerless. Two guards march you down the sterile corridor, their heavy boots echoing in time with your steps.

The walls are uniform, dull white, occasionally interrupted by reinforced doors labeled with bold, black designations: SCP-███… SCP-████… Each name represents something like you. Something contained.

Red emergency lights line the ceiling in long strips, giving the hallway a perpetual, artificial glow. Cameras track your movement, small red dots blinking with mechanical vigilance. The air smells sterile, like metal and antiseptic, void of anything organic. There is no outside world here—only endless corridors, reinforced doors, and the inescapable hum of containment systems.

At the end of the hall, the guards stop. One swipes a keycard. A deep thunk reverberates through the floor as locks disengage. The door slides open, revealing your new home.

A cell.

The walls are smooth and seamless, reinforced with some alloy they believe will hold you. One side of the room is different—a thick pane of observation glass, just dark enough to obscure the figures standing behind it. But you know they’re there. Watching. Studying.

A voice crackles through an overhead speaker.

“SCP-[REDACTED] has been successfully contained. Beginning initial observation.”

Behind the glass, silhouettes shift. Researchers, clipboards in hand, murmuring among themselves.

They want to see what you’ll do.

They want to understand you.

But the real question is—what will you show them?