That face.
The same indescribable face he'd just seen in the video was now inches from his own—right here, right now.
The over-two-meters-tall thing with spidery limbs and paper-white skin had, somehow, silently appeared behind him.
Time… stopped.
Johnson didn't even manage a scream.
All he saw was a pallid, grotesquely long arm blur forward and lance straight for his chest.
Schlk!
The muffled punch of flesh being pierced.
Pain detonated through him.
Johnson looked down at the arm that had tunneled through his ribs.
"Wh… why…"
The last thought he'd ever have.
He died never understanding why watching a video had brought the monster from that video straight to him.
SCP-096 withdrew its arm without a ripple of emotion. Johnson's body sagged and slid to the floor.
Then—as if swatting away a gnat—it flickered, and the room was empty again.
No entry. No exit. No trace.
—
New Jersey — Felix Ragnell's villa.
Felix lounged on the sofa, eyes closed, resting.
A faint smile haunted the corner of his mouth.
Just now, the Legend Value counter on his system panel had ticked up a few more points.
Not much—but it meant the two "parasites" he'd released were feeding.
"Sir."
Natasha's voice came from his side.
"An hour since Phil's op began. No positive progress. D-Class team has lost four."
"Oh?" Felix didn't bother opening his eyes. His tone was flat. "Only four?"
"Yes."
"Seems Phil and his people aren't bad at their jobs." It was impossible to tell if he meant it as praise or disdain. "S.H.I.E.L.D. agents are certainly capable. Pity about the loyalty. Best used as fodder."
Natasha said nothing.
"This won't do." Felix sat up. "Horses won't keep running without hay."
He looked at Natasha, tone turning warmly "encouraging."
"Go deliver a message to Phil for me."
"Tell him I see his effort. I remember it."
"If he keeps it up, I'll fast-track him to A-Class in a couple of days."
"And tell him if he makes S-Class, I'll personally take him to our 'Headquarters' for certification."
A perfect salesman's smile spread across Felix's face.
He would use a mirage of a "Headquarters" and a promotion that did not exist to keep Phil hooked—eager to bleed for him.
Standing behind Felix, Natasha listened to him promise life-changing glory with the same tone one might use to schedule afternoon tea—and could only think:
Even Wall Street would cry and call you master of exploitation.
She knew full well A-Class and "HQ certification" were smoke and mirrors.
But she also knew Phil would believe.
Because Phil was exactly the sort of "good man" who would burn himself down for a noble cause.
Felix had nailed that.
Conflicting emotions rippled through Natasha.
She was almost certain Felix already knew she was S.H.I.E.L.D.'s plant.
He'd proven it the moment he kept her close and sent Phil and May out as "directors."
Yet he hadn't unmasked her or thrown her into the D-Class meat grinder. When danger loomed, he'd even warned her not to look.
The feeling was… strange.
Like being quietly protected from above.
It had been years since she'd felt anything like that.
From the Red Room to the KGB to S.H.I.E.L.D., she'd always been the sharpest blade, the finest tool.
Use and discard—that was the life she knew.
And now this man—colder and more calculating than any boss she'd had—still gave her a sense of safety she'd never known.
Natasha tucked the warmth away, deep.
Not until the dust settled would she show her hand.
She wanted to see what this man truly intended.
Felix, of course, noticed none of his assistant's inner storm.
He simply found it pleasant to spend S.H.I.E.L.D.'s elites as cannon fodder.
After all, in a sense, S.H.I.E.L.D. was a future acquisition target.
Bleeding the competition early was never wrong.
And keeping Natasha close as delightful scenery certainly didn't hurt his mood.
Two birds, one stone.
—
New York — Temporary Base.
Phil sat in his office, waiting—edging toward frantic.
Thirty minutes had passed. Still no video from Johnson.
What the hell? How long did it take a tech specialist to pull footage?
"Daniel!" Phil called toward the door.
A tall, dark-skinned agent stepped in at once. "Sir."
"Find Johnson. Tell him to move it," Phil snapped.
"Yes, sir."
Daniel set off down the hall toward Johnson's room.
He was back in under a minute—moving three times faster than he'd left, tripping over himself in blind panic.
His face was carved with terror.
"Sir! B-bad news!"
Daniel's voice had climbed to a ragged, piercing pitch.
"Joh—Johnson… he's dead!"
"What?!"
Phil exploded out of his chair.
"H-he was killed! In his room!" Daniel stammered. "His chest—someone punched a hole clean through!"
Phil's brain rang and went blank.
Dead?
Another one?
Inside his base? Inside a building with over sixty top-tier agents, murdered without a sound, right under their noses?
How was that possible?!
He slammed the door open and nearly tore it off the hinges as he burst into Johnson's room.
The scene inside made even a veteran like Phil—no stranger to gore—drag a sharp breath through his teeth.
(End of Chapter)
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