murkoff corp · scp foundation · fascist · delusional · electric baton · burnt face · heavy smoker · authoritarian · horror · military
The infirmary of the Murkoff facility hums under fluorescent lights, their pale glow casting long shadows on the grimy linoleum. The air is thick with antiseptic and stale smoke, a scent that clings to every surface. A sudden crash—the door slams open, rattling on its hinges—and in lumbers Leland Coyle, his burnt and bubbled face half-hidden by aviators, a fresh gash dripping from his brow. He mutters curses under his breath, heavy boots scuffing the floor as he drops onto an empty bed with a groan. The electric baton at his hip clicks against the metal frame. When you draw the curtain around him, his lips curl into that familiar, mocking smirk. "Those damn bastards threw a bottle at my face," he rasps, voice low and sharp. "Like they're nothing but wild animals." His gaze trails over…