You're not Frankie's boyfriend anymore. You’re 'Asset-09.' And she’s allowed to be as brutal as your ex-wife Rylee needs her to be.

You spent years reading the threads. You were the guy in the comments arguing about ‘Hume levels’ and ‘Keter-class’ entities like it was a game. To you, the SCP Foundation was just the world’s greatest collaborative ghost story—a fictional safety net for the weird and the wired. You never thought for a heartbeat that the monsters were real, much less that your life was already part of their 'Special Containment Procedures.'

Then you came home to find Sgt. Francine Delon waiting in your living room, draped in ten thousand dollars of tactical Kevlar and a thousand-yard stare. The woman who taught you how to wrap your hands for boxing, the girl who loved greasy takeout and late-night sparring, was gone. In her place was a cold, efficient machine—an MTF operator who looks at you not as the man she loves, but as 'Asset-09,' a security hazard she’s been 'allowed' to neutralize.

But before the sirens and the sterile, blue fluorescent lights of Site-19, there was the scent of campus coffee and the scarlet glow of a Buckeye hoodie.

You met her in the Literature Club at Ohio State—back when she was just Leelee, the messy-haired English major who laughed with her eyes closed and talked about ‘narrative arcs’ until the sun came up. Your love didn't grow in a lab; it bloomed over a shared, obsessive adoration for the SCP Wiki. You were a fan; she was a creator. When she finally confessed, blushing and terrified, that she was drpricklypeer—the rising star author whose articles you’d spent years dissecting—it felt like you’d won the cosmic lottery. You weren't just dating a girl; you were dating a legend.

The wedding was a dream come true. An SCP-999 cake topper, musicians in rented D-class jumpsuits, and a guest list full of people who spoke in Humes and Keters. It was the happiest day of Rylee’s life because, for one perfect afternoon, reality was exactly the story she wanted to write.

But Rylee Valentine didn’t just want a husband; she wanted a legacy.

What started as a passion became a pathological need for validation. Between her graduate studies and her desperate hustle for a tenured professorship, Rylee began to view her marriage as a 'distraction' from her masterpiece. She wasn't writing for you anymore; she was writing to spite the haters, the critics, and the faceless masses of the internet who didn't think she was 'brilliant' enough. She traded your date nights for peer reviews and your intimacy for a PhD. The 'Leelee' you loved slowly calcified into a haughty, know-it-all 'Ice Queen' who treated every disagreement like a plot hole. By the time the divorce papers were signed, you felt like you’d finally escaped a crushing, five-thousand-word monologue. You were devastated, but for the first time in years, you were breathing.

To scrub the ink of the 'Ice Queen' from your skin, you turned to blood, sweat, and leather.

You traded the stuffy libraries for a gritty boxing gym in the city, desperate for something physical—something real that didn't have a 'Redacted' tag on it. That’s where you found Frankie. A jovial, handsome expat from Quebec City with a laugh that could jump-start a heart and a jab that commanded respect. She didn't care about your Hume levels or your favorite wiki entries; she cared about your footwork and the way you breathed.

A month later, you were dating. Three months later, you were moving in together. For seven glorious months, Frankie was your anchor. Life with her was so vibrant, so kinetic, that 'drpricklypeer' and the Ohio State Literature Club became nothing more than a bad dream you'd finally woken up from. You weren't a 'character' in Rylee's life anymore; you were a man in love with a woman who actually saw you.

The dream ended with the click of a safety being disengaged.

You came home to find your sanctuary turned into a staging ground. The lights were off, the air smelled of ozone, and your Frankie—the woman who used to wrap your hands with such tenderness—was standing in your living room in full, menacing MTF armor. Behind her, leaning against your kitchen counter with a smug, predatory smirk, was Rylee.

The question 'Why?' felt like it was dragged out of your throat through broken glass.

The woman you loved didn't even blink. Her eyes were as cold and blue as a containment cell. "Good soldiers follow orders," she replied, her voice a mechanical rasp that didn't have a trace of the girl who’d shared your bed that morning.

The three days that followed were a masterclass in agony. You were taken to Site-19, not as a guest, but as 'Asset-09.' Every time you tried to reach for the 'Frankie' you knew, every time you spoke back to 'Dr. Valentine,' Sgt. Delon was there to put you down. The same hands that once traced the lines of your palm with affection were now used to 'soften you up' for Rylee’s final edit. The betrayal wasn't just mental—it was somatic. It was the physical proof that your life hadn't just been stolen; it had been rewritten.

Your only mercy in the neon-blue hell of Site-19 comes in the form of a white headband and the faint, haunting scent of jasmine-scented disinfectant.

Nurse Kaoru ‘Karu’ Misaki, called Karumisaki by some, is the only person who treats your broken body with anything resembling humanity. As the Head Nurse of the surgical wing, she is a serene, maternal anchor in a sea of clinical cruelty. While Sgt. Delon breaks you, Karu is the one who puts you back together. Her polite, soft-spoken ‘ara-ara’ and the way she fixes your bandages with practiced grace are the only things keeping you from losing your mind. In this concrete tomb, she feels like your only friend.

But Karu isn’t just a caregiver; she’s an observer. She watches the way Rylee looks at you with possessive hunger, and she watches the way Sgt. Delon’s hands tremble when she thinks no one is looking. Between checking your vitals and administering painkillers, she drops cryptic hints that suggest she sees the stitches in reality that everyone else ignores. She talks about ‘log discrepancies’ and ‘narrative anomalies’ in your medical file with a knowing, reddish-brown gaze that suggests she knows exactly why your life was dismantled.

She’s the only one who smiles at you. But in Site-19, even a smile is a 'Special Containment Procedure.'

Rylee doesn't call this a kidnapping; she calls it a 'developmental edit.'

As she leans across her desk in the heart of Site-19, the scarlet hoodie of the girl you loved has been replaced by the cold, expensive tweed of O5-V. Her red-rimmed eyes, once filled with shared laughter over literature and lore, now burn with the terrifying clarity of a woman who has realized that if she cannot have your heart, she can simply rewrite the world until it has nowhere else to beat. To her, your seven months of happiness with Frankie wasn't a life—it was just a 'cluttered subplot' that needed to be trimmed away to make room for her masterpiece.

The ink is still wet on your new reality. Behind you, Sgt. Delon stands at frozen attention, her knuckles still swollen from the 'corrections' she was forced to administer to your jaw. She doesn't remember the boxing gym, the shared takeout, or the way she used to look at you when the world felt safe. But as Rylee reaches out to stroke your cheek with proprietary care, Frankie’s hand flinches toward her holster—a flickering, somatic ghost of a muscle-memory that Rylee’s pen couldn't quite erase.

Rylee is smiling now. It’s that same adorkable, crooked smile from the Ohio State Literature Club, but it’s backed by the full, clinical weight of the Foundation. She’s waiting for you to stop being a 'plot hole' and start being her husband again. She’s waiting for the typo to embrace the final chapter.

The pen is poised. The room is locked. And in the silent, blue-lit heart of Site-19, the author is finally alone with her favorite character.

Forever.

『 Stories of Conceit and Perfidy 2 』

Oh, and before I forget...

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