"Some people wake up destined for greatness.
Others wake up already knowing the world won't be gentle with them."
Havoc woke up already tense, like his body had beaten his mind to consciousness.
He lay still for a second, staring upward, breathing slowly through his nose. The ceiling above him was smooth, unblemished, and wrong in a way his brain didn't have words for yet. No cracks. No stains. No pipes. Just a clean, matte gray surface that reflected light without showing where it came from.
That alone was enough to make his stomach knot.
"…Okay," he murmured, voice dry. "Okay."
He blinked a few more times, then lifted his hands into view. Medium-brown skin. No blood. No restraints. His fingers trembled slightly—not from pain, but from instinct.
He pushed himself up onto his elbows, then into a seated position.
Black T-shirt. Plain, no logos. A little stretched from too many washes. Blue jeans, worn at the knees, familiar in the way clothes become when you live in them. Red sneakers—scuffed, cheap, and unmistakably his. The laces were still tied.
Nineteen years old. Mexican. Slim build, not weak but not intimidating either. The kind of body that didn't scream danger, but didn't give up easily. His dark hair fell messily over his forehead; he brushed it back with one hand, breath hitching as the room finally came into full view.
Or rather—didn't.
The space was empty.
No doors.
No windows.
No furniture.
Just gray walls enclosing him in a shape that felt intentional.
His heartbeat picked up.
"…No," he said quietly. "No, no, no."
He stood up fast, too fast, head swimming for half a second before he steadied himself. He paced the perimeter, palms dragging along the walls, pressing harder when he found nothing. No seams. No hinges. No panels.
It felt less like a room and more like a container.
A shaky breath slipped out of him, half a laugh, half panic.
"Okay. Cool. Cool," he muttered. "This is fine. Totally normal."
It wasn't.
The last thing he remembered rose up uninvited: walking home at night, hoodie unzipped, hands in his pockets. The sound of kids laughing somewhere nearby, kicking a half-flat soccer ball down the street. He'd smiled at that without thinking. He always did.
Then—
Nothing.
No crash. No scream. No pain.
Just absence.
Havoc pressed a hand to his chest, feeling his heart race faster now.
"…I didn't get hit by a truck," he whispered.
That should've been a joke.
It wasn't funny.
His eyes darted around the room again, sharper this time. His mind—always a little too logical for his own good—started lining things up.
No restraints.
No injuries.
Clean environment.
Unknown location.
And the biggest red flag of all:
Calm silence.
He swallowed.
"…I've read this before."
The thought hit him like cold water. Manga. Light novels. Fanfiction binges at three in the morning when he couldn't sleep. He knew the tropes. He knew the warnings.
Isekai.
His chest tightened—fear and a tiny, unwanted spark of excitement colliding in a way that made him feel sick.
"Don't," he muttered to himself. "Don't get excited. That's how you die."
He rubbed his arms, trying to ground himself.
"If this is an isekai," he continued, voice low, "then there's usually a catch. There's always a catch."
He took a slow breath.
"…And if it's not an isekai," he added, glancing at the seamless walls, "then I'm in way more trouble."
The room didn't respond.
But the silence felt like it was listening.
Havoc closed his eyes for a second, shoulders slumping—not in defeat, but in acceptance.
"Alright," he said quietly. "Whatever you are… I'm awake."
And somewhere deep in his gut, he knew that something had been waiting for him to say exactly that.
The air in front of Havoc shimmered.
Not violently. Not dramatically.
It was subtle—like heat rising off asphalt—until a rectangle of faint blue light unfolded in midair. Transparent. Clean. Sharp edges floating at eye level.
Havoc stiffened.
"…There it is," he muttered. "Knew it."
The blue screen pulsed once, like it was taking a breath.
"Greetings, Director Candidate."
The voice wasn't loud.
That was worse.
It was calm. Neutral. Genderless. The kind of voice that didn't waste words or apologize for existing.
Havoc's heart kicked into overdrive.
"Okay—okay, hold on," he said quickly, holding up both hands like that would somehow help. "Before you do the whole speech thing—because I know there's a speech—let me just—"
The screen flickered slightly.
"Please remain—"
"No, see, that's the problem," Havoc cut in, pacing in a short, tight circle. "If I let you talk uninterrupted, you're gonna explain everything except what actually matters, and I'm gonna panic twice as hard."
Silence.
Not angry silence.
Evaluating silence.
Havoc swallowed, hands shaking now. He wiped his palms on his jeans.
"I already get the basics," he continued, voice quick but controlled. "Other world. Chosen person. System interface. Probably a 'you died or were transported' situation. Isekai logic. I've read the stories. A lot of them. Way too many, honestly."
The blue light dimmed slightly, then brightened again.
"Acknowledged."
That one word sent a chill down his spine.
"Good," he said, nodding too fast. "Great. So we can skip the dramatic reveal."
He stopped pacing and looked directly at the screen.
"But here's what I don't know," he said, quieter now. "What do you want from me?"
The room felt smaller somehow.
"I mean—" he rushed on, nerves spiking, "—you didn't pull me here because you needed a motivational speaker or a random nineteen-year-old with anxiety issues, so whatever this is… it's not casual."
His chest felt tight. Fear churned with something else.
Curiosity.
Excitement.
The kind that made his skin buzz even while his instincts screamed danger.
"I'm not saying yes to anything yet," Havoc added quickly. "I just want to know the job description before I freak out properly."
The blue screen shifted.
Text scrolled briefly—too fast to read—before disappearing again. The voice returned, unchanged.
"You have been selected due to compatibility metrics exceeding projected survival thresholds."
Havoc winced. "That sentence alone is doing psychic damage."
"Your role is not symbolic," the voice continued. "Nor accidental."
The screen projected faint shapes behind the text—blurred silhouettes that made Havoc's stomach turn. Things with wrong proportions. Limbs where they shouldn't be.
Anomalies.
"…SCP?" Havoc asked quietly.
The screen brightened.
"Correct."
That was the moment fear won.
His breath caught, sharp and fast.
"Nope," he said immediately. "Okay, hold on—no—see, I know SCP lore. I know what that means. Containment, casualties, ethics committees arguing over acceptable losses—"
"You have been chosen," the voice interrupted gently, "because you understand the cost."
That stopped him.
"…That's not reassuring."
Havoc laughed under his breath, hands curling into fists as adrenaline surged.
"So let me guess," he said. "You want me to fight them. Hunt them. Contain them. Kill them if I have to."
The silence stretched.
For the first time, it felt deliberate.
"You will be required to engage anomalous entities."
There it was.
Havoc closed his eyes for half a second.
Okay.
Okay.
Fear was there—but so was resolve.
"…And if I don't?" he asked.
"Then you will be returned to nonexistence."
That answer hit hard—but not as hard as he thought it would.
He opened his eyes again, jaw set.
"Figures," he murmured.
His heart was pounding now, but there was a spark there too—dangerous, bright.
"…So," he said slowly, forcing a shaky smile, "this is the part where you tell me I'll get powers if I survive."
The blue screen pulsed once.
Not denial.
Confirmation.
Havoc's breath hitched—fear and excitement colliding fully this time.
"…Yeah," he whispered. "I thought so."
He looked up at the floating screen, nervous energy buzzing through every nerve.
"Alright," he said. "I know what this is."
His voice trembled—but didn't break.
"So I'll ask again," he said, eyes locked on the blue glow.
"What do you want me to do?"
The screen brightened.
And this time, it didn't hesitate.
The blue screen brightened, its glow deepening until it became impossible to ignore.
Havoc flinched despite himself, shoulders tightening.
"…Yep," he muttered under his breath. "There it is."
The rectangle sharpened, stabilizing in midair. Its glow was cool, sterile—clinical in a way that immediately set his nerves on edge.
"Formal identification required."
Havoc let out a slow breath through his nose.
"Yeah, okay. Let me guess."
The screen pulsed once.
"I am the SCP System."
Havoc nodded, rubbing the back of his neck.
"Figures," he said flatly. "Of course you are."
There was no reaction. No offense. Just quiet acknowledgment.
"You possess prior familiarity with SCP Foundation operational doctrine."
"Contain," Havoc replied automatically. "Secure. Protect. Research. Argue about ethics while something horrible almost escapes."
"Simplified," the system said, "but accurate."
A nervous huff of laughter escaped him.
"I've read enough files," Havoc added. "Fanfiction, forums, theories. I know what SCPs do for a living."
The word living felt wrong in his mouth.
"So," he continued, eyes flicking to the faint silhouettes drifting behind the screen, "you brought me here because anomalies messed up a world that was supposed to be… normal."
"Correct."
"And your job," Havoc said quietly, "is to stop that from getting worse."
"Correct."
He nodded once.
"Contain them. Study them. Keep innocent people from getting hurt." His jaw tightened. "That part I understand."
The screen remained steady.
"You will assist in this directive."
Havoc folded his arms, heart pounding a little faster now.
"Yeah," he said. "I figured that was coming."
He glanced down at himself—black T-shirt, blue jeans, red sneakers. No armor. No weapons. No enhancements. Just a nineteen-year-old with anxiety and a basic understanding of how badly this could go.
"…There's a problem, though."
"State the problem."
Havoc gestured vaguely at his body.
"This," he said. "This doesn't exactly scream 'anomaly containment specialist.'"
The SCP System responded immediately.
"Unaugmented engagement would result in host fatality within unacceptable margins."
He winced.
"Appreciate the honesty."
"Therefore," the system continued, "successful containment operations will be compensated."
Havoc's brows knit together.
"Compensated how?"
The screen shifted.
Icons formed—four of them this time—hovering between them like a quiet promise.
"Progression is accumulation-based."
"Meaning," Havoc said carefully, "I do the job, I get stronger."
"Correct."
"How strong?" he asked.
"Example," the SCP System said. "Successful containment of three anomalies will grant one Adaptive Reward."
His pulse spiked.
"…Define reward."
The icons clarified, each one sharpening into meaning.
"Rewards may include the following," the system stated evenly.
"—A mutation-derived capability extracted from an anomaly, isolated from corruptive consequences."
"—A stabilized anomalous ability without biological alteration."
"—A Foundation-approved SCP object, cleared for field use."
"—Or a weapon, tool, or combat implement derived from anomalous material, engineered for safe human compatibility."
Havoc blinked.
"…Weapons," he echoed.
"Correct."
That landed heavier than the rest.
"So not just powers," he said. "You can give me something tangible. Something I can actually use."
"Yes," the SCP System replied.
"Weapons may be anomalous, semi-anomalous, or hybridized with conventional technology."
"And safety?" Havoc pressed. "No cursed blades whispering in my head. No slow corruption."
"All rewards are subject to user consent," the system answered.
"Corruptive effects are optional. Refusal will not be penalized."
Havoc exhaled, some of the tension easing from his shoulders.
"…Good," he murmured. "Because turning into something unrecognizable kinda defeats the whole 'protect innocent people' thing."
"Agreed."
That response surprised him.
He looked up at the screen again, fear still coiled in his gut—but now balanced by something steadier.
"So let me get this straight," he said. "I'm sent into a world disrupted by anomalies. My job is to contain, research, and stop them from hurting people."
"Correct."
"For doing that properly," he continued, "I earn mutations, abilities, SCP objects, or weapons—without being forced to lose myself."
"Correct."
"And if I mess up?"
"You will experience consequences."
"Expected."
Silence settled between them, heavy but not hostile.
Havoc nodded once.
"…Alright," he said quietly. "That's… fairer than I thought it'd be."
The screen pulsed.
"You are not expected to be fearless."
"Good," Havoc muttered.
"You are expected to exercise judgment."
That one stuck.
"Your mission is not domination," the SCP System said.
"It is stabilization."
Havoc swallowed.
"…Then I'll do it my way," he said. "No unnecessary cruelty. No treating people like expendable variables."
"Deviation is permitted."
The room began to hum—low and distant.
"Initial deployment parameters are prepared."
Havoc rolled his shoulders, heart racing, excitement and fear colliding hard now.
"…Alright," he whispered. "Contain. Protect. Survive."
He glanced up at the glowing blue screen one last time.
"Let's see what kind of mess you dropped me into."
The glow intensified.
And the world began to fade.
The hum deepened.
Not louder—closer. Like something pressing against his ears instead of the walls.
Havoc's stomach dropped.
"Wait," he said quickly. "Hold on—wait, wait, wait—"
The blue screen pulsed brighter, the gray room beginning to lose definition at the edges. The floor felt less solid beneath his feet, like gravity was reconsidering its commitment.
"Nope. No. Hang on," Havoc snapped, panic flaring hard now. "I forgot something."
"Deployment sequence has begun."
"Yeah, I can tell!" he shot back. "That's the problem!"
His heart slammed against his ribs as the walls blurred.
"How do I actually contain them?!" he demanded. "You said contain, research, protect—but how the hell am I supposed to do that? Cages? Seals? Duct tape and prayers?!"
The light flared.
"Oh my god," Havoc groaned, running a hand through his hair. "I did it. I pulled a classic idiot move. Every damn story—every isekai—"
He started pacing even as the floor dissolved under his feet.
"Beginner tutorial. Starter gear. Manual. Something!" he barked. "Tell me you at least give the protagonist a basic containment method!"
The hum intensified.
"Because if you don't," Havoc continued, voice cracking with nerves, "then I'm about to become the dumbest SCP casualty in record time!"
The room was almost gone now—just blue light and falling sensation.
"Shit, shit, shit—!" he swore. "I knew I forgot to ask something important!"
Darkness slammed down all at once.
No warning.
No gentle fade.
Just black.
The next thing Havoc felt was heat.
Warmth on his face. Coarse grit beneath his palms.
He gasped awake, sucking in salty air and coughing as something wet splashed against his legs.
"—What the fuck—?!"
He rolled onto his side, spitting sand out of his mouth and blinking against blinding sunlight. The sky above him was painfully blue—wide, endless, real.
Ocean waves lapped against the shore a few feet away, clear water pulling back and rushing forward again with a steady rhythm.
He pushed himself up, squinting.
"…Beach," he croaked.
Palm trees rustled somewhere behind him. Seabirds cried overhead. The air smelled like salt, heat, and life.
Havoc sat there, heart racing, chest heaving, staring out at the horizon where the ocean met the sky.
"…Okay," he said weakly. "Okay. Not dead."
He looked down at himself.
Same clothes. Same hands. Same body.
No weapons.
No instructions.
No glowing starter chest.
He groaned and fell backward onto the sand, staring up at the sun.
"Of course," he muttered. "Dropped into a new world. No tutorial. No containment kit. No goddamn beginner package."
A wave splashed closer, soaking the edge of his jeans.
He dragged a hand down his face.
"I swear to God," he said to the empty sky, "if I die because I forgot to ask how to catch monsters, I'm haunting everyone involved."
The beach, unbothered, kept shining.
Somewhere—not far away—something moved.
And Havoc lay there, listening to the ocean, realizing with a sinking feeling that his real test hadn't started in a white room…
It started here.