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:root {
    --header-title: "SCP Foundation";
    --header-subtitle: "SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT";
}

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:root {
    --header-title: "SCP Foundation";
    --header-subtitle: "SECURE - CONTAIN - PROTECT";
}
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I mentioned Thirteen in the last document; surely you must be curious. To fully understand her story, you have to view everything from her perspective. I hope you're prepared.

Below is a log that originated from Thirteen's Mnestic Implant Device. These devices were created to ensure we have every perspective, every viewpoint, of a situation. Each of the Council members has one in their brain, and all information is relayed to a secure data centre.

Do not think too much about it; the device itself is not the main point. All you need to know is that it records our memories and documents them.

What follows is an entry that I believe is relevant to your understanding. It is not a mission log, nor an exploration log. It is a private moment. Treat it with the respect it deserves.

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= **Memory Log**

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**Date:** 2018/03/27

**Subject:** O5-13

**Location:** Site-17, Canada

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[BEGIN LOG]

The hum of equipment is different today. Muted, as if the machines themselves are beginning to feel weary. Or perhaps it's just my own exhaustion, my senses worn too thin to register their usual, insistent whine. This room is supposed to be the most accommodating ward in the Site, and yet, everything about it is wrong. The lights too bright. The white of the sheets too sharp. The sharp, sterile scent of disinfectants too strong.

Levi's hand is cold in mine, his pale skin almost the same colour as the bedsheets.

"Are you sure you're okay?" I whisper softly, my thumb tracing slow, useless circles on his skin, a feeble attempt to impart some warmth, some comfort.

He turns his head on the pillow to face me, an action that takes a great deal of effort. A faint, sad smile touches his lips, but it doesn't reach his eyes. The brilliant, clever light in them is dimmed, like a dying fire. The deep blue of his eyes no longer gleamed in the sun, not that he could even leave his bed.

"You ask me that every time," he says, his voice hoarse. "I'm okay. You look like you haven't slept in days. Are you sure //you're// okay?"

He always does this. Always deflects. Always protects me, even now. Especially now.

"Don't," I shake my head slowly, my grip tightening. "Just... don't."

We both know what "every time" means. We both just lived through one. The annual day of nothingness. The day everything just stops. The Cessation.

For me, it's a day of terrifying silence, a day where I hold my breath. For him... for him, it's the day the only thing keeping him alive winks out of existence. The day the disease inside him gets to do what it wants, unimpeded, unrestricted, for twenty-four hours.

The doctors say he's "stable" now. Their machines show the synthetic SCP-500 pill is back in his system, re-establishing its feeble blockade against the disease. It's back to doing the bare minimum. Not curing him, but doing just enough to slow the inevitable decay. Again.

Sometimes I let myself think about the real [[[SCP-500]]]. A whole container of them, lost to history because some idiot thought a clear head was worth more than a cure for death itself. One of those little pills, just one, and the rot inside him would be gone. Not paused. Gone. He could walk out of this room. He could see the sun.

But that’s a fantasy. All we have is this synthetic imitation, this pathetic half-measure that just... holds the line. It keeps the enemy at bay, but it never wins the war. And every year, the enemy gets a free shot. A free window to attack.

The nurses drone on about his "vitals." They talk about cellular regeneration and neural stabiliser levels returning to baseline. They see a graph slowly climb back up to "normal." But they don't see everything. They don't feel the fine tremor in his hand that wasn't there just days ago. They don't see how much strength he has to muster to simply sit up. They see a patient stabilising. I see the love of my life being eroded, pieces of him quietly fading away into nothing with every passing Cessation. A little more of him is carved away each time, and that part of him doesn't return.

I'm one of the thirteen most powerful people on this planet. I contain gods and demons. And yet, I'm utterly useless in this room. Completely powerless to help the one person I love.

Levi squeezes my hand back, an attempt at reassuring me. "I'm here," he breathes. "I'll always be here."

It's a lie.

One that I desperately want to believe.

[END LOG]

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