Scp: The One With The Mask

The faint silver light of the moon filtered through the partially drawn curtains of Dr. Natalie’s bedroom. The room was large but minimalist, its walls painted in soft cream tones and its furniture made of polished oak. The bed, centered beneath the window, was unmade—rumpled sheets and a cream duvet twisted from restless sleep.

The digital clock on her nightstand read 4:00 a.m., and its soft chime pierced the otherwise silent room. Natalie stirred, her auburn hair a wild halo against her pillow. Her eyes opened slowly, unfocused at first. She sighed, her breath deep but heavy, the reluctant inhale of someone who had long grown tired of such early mornings.

She groaned, rubbing her temples. Her silk pajamas, a light green color, hung loosely on her. The short-sleeved top was unbuttoned at the collar, and the matching pants were slightly wrinkled from sleep. Her messy hair tumbled over her shoulders as she slowly sat up. She clenched her fists, her arms shaking slightly as they bore her weight. Her legs remained motionless beneath her, as always. After a few moments of deep breaths, she reached over to the wheelchair parked next to her bed. Carefully, she transferred herself into it with practiced determination, though the effort left her a bit breathless. The faint creak of the chair’s joints the only sound in the quiet house. She sat there for a moment, staring into the darkened room, before turning the wheels and rolling toward the door.

The hallway beyond her bedroom was wide and quiet, the polished wood floors reflecting faint slivers of moonlight. The air was cool and still, the kind of silence that felt almost heavy. Natalie wheeled herself slowly, her movements groggy and slow, her mind not yet fully awake.

At the top of the staircase, she paused. Her stair lift was attached to the banister, its mechanisms sleek and discreet. She aligned her chair carefully, the familiarity of the motion allowing her to move without thinking. The hum of the lift broke the silence as it descended, carrying her downward at a steady, deliberate pace.

The kitchen greeted her with its modern design—granite countertops, stainless steel appliances, and pale gray cabinets. The faint glow of a motion-activated light bathed the space in a soft, sterile light. Natalie rolled to the counter and began her morning routine.

She moved methodically, pulling eggs and bacon from the refrigerator and setting a frying pan on the stove. The faint sizzle of bacon hitting the heated surface was the first real sound to break the stillness. She flipped the bacon carefully, her movements precise, and cracked two eggs into the pan once the bacon was nearly done. As the eggs cooked, she set a slice of bread in the toaster. The smell of breakfast began to fill the air—a savory warmth that momentarily eased the weight of the early hour.

While the food cooked, Natalie turned to her coffee machine. She brewed a latte, adding almond milk, a pump of vanilla syrup, and a pinch of cinnamon. The steam curled lazily from the mug, carrying the sweet-spiced aroma across the kitchen.

Her breakfast complete, Natalie plated her eggs and bacon on toast and carried everything to the dining table. A newspaper neatly pressed on her dining table, She unfolded The Atlanta Journal-Constitution, the paper rustling faintly in the quiet.

The headline read: "Urban Legend or Reality? Reports of a Plant Woman in Local Forests Dismissed as Hoax." Natalie’s lips twitched into a faint smile—just the barest hint of amusement.

The rest of the paper was a mix of the mundane and the tragic:

A wildfire had ravaged a nearby park, destroying hundreds of acres.
A local artist had unveiled a series of sculptures inspired by nature.
A tech company claimed a breakthrough in AI-driven prosthetics.

Natalie read in silence, the faint ticking of a clock in the background marking the passage of time. She finished her breakfast, wiped her mouth with a napkin, and returned her dishes to the sink.