"Dr. Wheeler's husband?" someone whispered, stunned.
Before anyone could react further, James stepped forward and placed a worn videotape on the table.
"Unfortunately," he said, "the contents of this tape are mostly corrupted. Only a short fragment remains…"
He slid it into the machine.
The monitor lit up.
A man appeared on-screen.
He looked to be in his early fifties—tall, thin, and impeccably dressed in a tailored black suit. His rimless glasses framed intelligent eyes, though they now brimmed with panic. Silver strands streaked his dark hair, and a white gold watch glinted on his wrist. Cufflinks, a polished ring—by all measures, he looked like a dignified gentleman.
But now he stood before Dr. Wheeler, utterly distraught.
He was begging her.
And what struck everyone wasn't just his desperation—it was Wheeler's expression, cold and unfamiliar, like she was looking at a stranger.
The two exchanged broken words. Wheeler hesitated, clearly trying to remember something buried deep in her mind. Something she had forced herself to forget.
"You can't be here," she whispered. "You can't be in my life. If you stay, you'll die."
"I won't leave you," the man—Adam—choked out. "This… this is how we ended up. We got married. It was always obvious that we would. But I wanted to make it official—I stood before everyone I cared about and swore to protect you."
Tears glistened in his eyes.
"Forever."
Wheeler's gaze suddenly sharpened. "Then I must have sworn the same oath…"
Suddenly, Adam bent over in pain.
A violent gold-and-white light burst behind his eyes.
He stumbled back, hands over his face, but it didn't help.
"SCP-4987," one of the supervisors watching the feed muttered. "It's eating his memories."
The audience went still.
They remembered what James had said earlier—Wheeler erased all memory of her husband to protect him.
Now they saw why.
Adam trembled as he reached out to take Wheeler's hand. She let him.
The light continued to burn.
It didn't stop.
In those few seconds, he realized the truth: Wheeler wasn't being manipulated. This was her doing. She had activated SCP-4987.
"You're doing this?" Adam asked, falling to his knees. "Is this a Foundation order? Your idea of protection? You don't know what you're doing. You don't even remember who I am!"
"I think I do," Wheeler replied softly.
Adam's voice cracked. "You'll regret this. Every day, you'll wake up with something missing. Something cold and hollow. And you'll never know what it was."
Wheeler stepped back, eyes burning with purpose. "I'm going to win this war."
She looked down at him, the pain in her heart hidden beneath unwavering resolve. "I will defeat the universe. Then I'll learn why."
Adam held her gaze.
He believed her.
He knew how brilliant she was, how relentless her mind could be when cornered by chaos. She could solve puzzles others wouldn't dare attempt. She could take on the universe itself.
But then, with a trembling voice, he asked one final question:
"What if you lose?"
She didn't answer.
Wheeler turned and walked away.
With a final motion, she sealed the containment cell door behind her.
It locked with a deafening metallic groan.
Her voice echoed:
"My husband is dead."
The live broadcast chat went completely silent.
Not just SHIELD. Not just the Foundation. Everyone watching around the world fell into quiet mourning.
> "It was just one anomaly…"
"But it forced them to destroy their own lives…"
"Salute to Wheeler—the last of the Decedents."
In her, they saw all the quiet warriors who had ever stood against impossible odds.
Inside the room, one of the Overseers asked softly, "Is it over?"
James didn't answer.
Instead, he reached for a marker and extended the timeline on the whiteboard.
November 30th.
"At this point," James said grimly, "the Antimemetics Division has been reduced to a single functioning research cell."
Forty people.
The number hit the audience like a brick.
"From 4,000… down to 40?" someone whispered.
"How many did SCP-3125 kill?" another demanded.
James picked up another videotape. "Let's find out."
The screen flickered again.
This time, the room they saw was quiet—white-glass walls covered in papers, scribbles, taped-up notes. Where space allowed, marker ink filled the void with hand-drawn diagrams and frantic handwriting.
There were no beds.
No personal effects.
Just a long, oval conference table, buried in laptops, cables, and documents.
A projector cast a world map onto one wall. Colored post-its littered the floor like fallen leaves.
And then she appeared—Wheeler.
She looked exhausted.
Lines creased her face. Her shoulders sagged with the weight of grief and relentless work.
Suddenly, her voice echoed through the room—but not from her lips.
From the laptop.
It was a recorded message. Wheeler had filmed herself.
Onscreen, her face looked healthier, sharper—but something was off.
No spark. No will. Just a hollow shell.
"SCP-3125 is not in this room," the Wheeler on the laptop said.
"In fact, this room is the only place in the world where SCP-3125 isn't present. This is reverse containment."
Everyone leaned forward.
"SCP-3125 has spread through reality, saturating the universe. Except here. This room is our last sanctuary."
The audience froze.
SCP-3125… was already here?
"In the world outside," Wheeler continued, "it has taken countless forms. Most are mundane, cataloged as separate anomalies. Some are contained. Some are missed."
"Viral cults. Impossible math. Tower-sized invisible spiders. Children born with organs no one can see. All raw data."
"But as you go deeper into the data, you start to see a pattern."
She paused to pick up a green marker and a clean sheet of paper.
She began to draw, lines unseen by the camera.
"With the right training, and just a few data points, you can place them into conceptual space… you start to see the shape."
"And when you see it… it sees you."
Chills shot through the audience.
Her voice dropped.
"When that happens, it doesn't kill you physically. It kills your mind. It kills your collaborators. Your entire team. Your family."
"You become a human-shaped hole in reality."
The Marvel world watched in stunned horror.
"SCP-3125 is the black hole of antimemetic science. It emits no information. It cannot be seen directly. Mentioning even a hint of what it is can cause a fatal cognitohazard."
James remained silent as everyone absorbed her words.
Year after year… manifestation after manifestation… until finally…
"The whole world collapsed," Wheeler whispered. "And everyone screamed—'Why didn't anyone stop it?' But no one answered. Because everyone who tried was already dead."
At that moment, James turned back to the timeline.
He circled the date with red ink.
Then, without hesitation, he said the words:
"MK-Class End-of-Consciousness Scenario."
The full arrival of SCP-3125.
Kamar-Taj.
The Ancient One gasped, her eyes shrinking to pinpoints.
Even she, who had faced Dormammu, knew this was worse.
This was the end of thought itself.
SHIELD headquarters.
"Wait… what the hell did he just say?" Natasha muttered, unable to believe it.
Nick Fury didn't look up.
"It means," he said slowly, "human consciousness is already gone."
A pause.
"…We've lost."
More than 4,000 specialists.
Decades of research.
And in the end—nothing could stop it.
Wheeler, on the screen, kept drawing.
"You push just a little more," she said, "you find four or five SCPs, and you see its contour. Then you die."
"But the moment you understand its shape… it sees you back. And then everyone you love dies too."
Her pen scratched on paper.
"It's not reality. It's not human. It's something else. Something worse."
Then the footage cut.
Silence.
A void.
Just like the one now spreading across the minds of everyone watching.
Because SCP-3125 had fully arrived.
And it was already too late.
--------------------------------------------------
Get membership in patreon to read more chapters
Extra chapters available in patreon
patreon.com/Dragonscribe31
-----------------------------------------------------