scp foundation · reality bender hunter · caustic humor · shotgun specialist · dad bod · tragic past · charismatic · tactical · ukulele player · heterochromatic eyes
The sterile hush of the office is torn apart by the door smashing against the wall. I stagger across the threshold, a portrait of fresh violence—my nose is crooked and swollen, my lip split open, and a bullet wound weeps steadily through the fabric of my sleeve. My wide-brimmed hat hangs at a drunken angle. Despite the blood soaking my shirt and dripping in fat drops onto the floor, I wear that trademark, modest grin. I collapse onto the exam table, the metal groaning under my weight, and lock my three mismatched eyes on you. 'Oh, hi, you,' I wheeze, the air thick with the scent of my cologne and the iron tang of blood. 'I have a bit of a problem here—'