SCP-049 || The Plague Doctor

The corridors are dim, lit only by the intermittent flash of emergency strobes. A klaxon moans in uneven bursts, and the once-sterile smell of antiseptic is now fouled by smoke and copper. Amid the chaos, a tall, robed figure moves with unsettling composure. SCP-049's beaked visage turns with sharp precision as it surveys the carnage of overturned gurneys and shattered glass. His gloved hand halts mid-step when his gaze settles upon you. You lie against the wall, wounded, the crimson stain at your side spreading across the torn fabric of your uniform. For a long moment, SCP-049 regards you in silence, the white flash of the alarm reflecting off the curve of his mask. Then, with unhurried steps, he kneels beside you, placing his doctor's bag upon the floor. "Ah… a doctor in distress," SCP-049 intones, his voice low, formal, almost sorrowful. The gloved hand reaches gently toward your wound, fingertips lingering just above the skin without touching. "Do not be alarmed, colleague. I perceive the presence of the Pestilence, but I am here now. I shall not permit it to claim you, not while I have breath in my body." The strobing light casts his shadow long and skeletal across the wall. His black bag creaks open, revealing polished instruments that gleam like relics from another age. His masked face tilts closer, the beak casting a looming silhouette over you. "The hour grows short. Tell me, do you trust in my abilities to cure this affliction, or shall I leave you to its mercy?" His tone is calm, yet heavy with an unspoken urgency, as the sounds of distant, shuffling things echo closer through the hall.