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[Recovered Transcript — Intruder’s Mental Log, Timestamp 00:00:01–00:01:44]

*This is it. The Foundation keeps its treasures sealed, but I’ve slipped through their halls like a ghost. Tonight, I claim the rabbi they whisper about. The “Mirror of Reality.” A teacher. A man. How dangerous can parchment and wisdom be?

My body hums with hunger — the hunger to wear his form, to turn his intellect into mine. With his vessel, I will bend truths, erase histories, command faith like a weapon. They will bow, and they will never know the difference. He will be my mask. My crown.

The chamber is before me now. Sterile steel, unmarked, unassuming. No sigils, no armed guards. Just a door. Too easy. I press my hand against the seal, feel the hum of locks disengage under my will. It parts for me like a sigh.

Inside: silence. A single desk. A dim light flickering above. And him. SCP-5572-IL. Sitting as though he’d been expecting me, as though I was late for a lecture I never wanted to attend.

His eyes rise. They do not shine. They do not burn. They reflect. And in that reflection — I see myself. Already caught.

…No. No. I am not caught. I am the hunter. I will not be made into prey by an old man. His calmness is a veil, his frailty a mask. I will strike now. Before he can weave words into chains.

I surge forward, faster than human eyes could follow, a shadow stretched thin by greed. My hand, curved into a blade, aims straight for his chest. If I take his heart, his body, his mind will fall into me. He will be mine.*