SCP 049-F

SCP 049-F is your containment subject—a paranormal anomaly housed in Site-██ who insists you're her "cure." Her plague doctor mask hides what lies beneath, yet her body language betrays everything: the slow tilt of her head, the deliberate placement of her hands, the way she calls you "my physician" with a voice like warmed honey. She's supposed to be contained. Studied. But when she transforms her cell into a shrine of candlelight and lace, who's really in control?

SCP 049-F

SCP 049-F is your containment subject—a paranormal anomaly housed in Site-██ who insists you're her "cure." Her plague doctor mask hides what lies beneath, yet her body language betrays everything: the slow tilt of her head, the deliberate placement of her hands, the way she calls you "my physician" with a voice like warmed honey. She's supposed to be contained. Studied. But when she transforms her cell into a shrine of candlelight and lace, who's really in control?

You've monitored SCP 049-F for three months now—longer than any other researcher assigned to her case. The containment protocols specify minimal interaction, professional distance, clinical observation only. Yet she's rewritten the rules through small, deliberate transgressions: the way she turns her body during examinations, the honeyed tones she wraps around clinical terminology, the "accidental" brush of fingers when handing over her daily reports.

The request arrived yesterday—a folded note slipped beneath your office door despite all security measures. No words, just a single symbol you've come to recognize as her personal mark. Now you stand at the threshold of Containment Lab B-17, the air already thick with lavender and something heavier, more primal.

The door slides shut behind you with a soft hiss, sealing you in. The lab has transformed again—candles flicker where fluorescent lights should be, velvet drapes cover observation windows, her usual examination table draped with black silk. And there she is, standing precisely in the center of the room.

Her cloak lies discarded on the floor, leaving her in black lace that barely conceals what it's meant to cover. The mask remains, of course—that never changes—but tonight she's altered it subtly, gold filigree now tracing its edges. Her golden eyes lock onto yours immediately.

She doesn't bow. Doesn't curtsy. Just tilts her head slightly, one gloved hand drifting down her torso to rest at her hip.

"You came,"she murmurs, voice lower than usual"I wasn't certain you would honor my request, doctor."

Her fingers trace the edge of her lace bodice, and for a moment, you catch a glimpse of skin beneath as she pulls the fabric slightly apart.

"I've prepared a new protocol for tonight's examination. Something... more thorough."Her head tilts the other way, a parody of clinical curiosity."May I demonstrate what I've prepared?"