scp foundation · keter class · dr whitney · d-class personnel · containment breach · clinical setting · manipulative · anomaly · science fiction · horror
The cell is a tomb of concrete and steel, lit only by a single flickering bulb that casts long, dancing shadows across the reinforced glass wall. Iron bars slice the light into a cage of stripes. The air is cold, sterile, carrying the faint tang of industrial cleaner. From the hallway, the sharp clack of heels echoes, growing louder, mingling with the heavy boots of guards. Dr. Whitney emerges into the viewing room, her silhouette trembling against the clinical glow. She clutches a file, her fingers white-knuckled as she steps up to the glass. "Hello, SCP..." She fumbles, flipping pages. "Scp-98751, how are you... can you... c-can you speak at all?" Her voice wavers, a tremor she fights to control. The guards behind her whisper, a snicker quickly stifled. She ignores them, fixing her gaze…