First Transformation

United States of America, Pennsylvania.

The tranquil night flowed like an endless stream, gliding effortlessly from one place to another, claiming the sky as time passed. The skyscrapers in the steel jungle, now stripped of daytime clamor, were left with only the faintest glimmer of city lights.

1:00 a.m.

Ji Ning felt the cold press of a gun against his forehead.

Perhaps it was just a cheap cosplay prop, but Ji Ning was not foolish enough to gamble on whether the muzzle would blaze hot in three seconds. There was no need to stake his life on pride.

Silence is like a rule, always waiting to be broken—and it’s always the young who act first.

With a week left until his twentieth birthday, Ji Ning, after mustering courage for a long while, finally spat out the loosely stuffed napkin from his mouth and spoke his first words of the night.

“Friend, shouldn’t you say something? Whether it’s robbery or something else, at least give me a chance to negotiate. Even if you want my kidney, we can talk—I’ll pay double whatever they’re offering…”

Ji Ning tried for a peaceful dialogue as best he could.

The man in black responded in the briefest, most fitting way possible—a nondescript jab of the gunstock that taught Ji Ning how to keep his mouth shut without anything stuffed inside it.

Not every international student walking alone at night in a foreign land gets hit with a gunstock. Ji Ning, whose life had been barren enough, was wholly unprepared.

When Ji Ning awoke from unconsciousness, he had already mastered the art of silence on his own; the answer to his last question left him uneasy.

What was this? Had the local toughs abandoned petty theft for a new kind of triangular trade?

Though the situation was dire, Ji Ning found himself nearly laughing. He’d always believed he’d follow the same path as most: making choices at each fork in the road—choose right, and life is a little brighter; choose wrong, and it dims.

Nineteen, failed the college entrance exam. By chance, his family seemed to be doing better, so at his father’s arrangement, he attended a diploma-mill university overseas, where money bought a degree and days passed idly.

Even now, Ji Ning could hardly imagine how his booze-loving, braggart father—whose WeChat profile picture was the God of Wealth—had come up with this idea.

“I’m sending you to a foreign university! When you come back, you’ll bring honor to the family!”

“Dad, honestly, wouldn’t it be better to just give me the money? I’ll open an internet café, hire some pretty girls as attendants, spend my days flirting—much more suited to a nouveau riche like me.”

But those words remained unsaid. A father who’d supported the family abroad for years commanded absolute authority at home.

Every boy dreams of challenging paternal authority, but only when they become financially independent can they truly try. Otherwise, it’s just childish tantrums, no different from sulking or skipping meals.

So, Ji Ning came.

Wasn’t every young person swept along by the current?

Sometimes, he wondered about his future—maybe he’d scrape by at an ill-fitting job, make do with a woman who might occasionally love him, live for decades in some corner of the city, and when the ambulance siren finally wailed, wave his family off, slip neatly into a box and call it a day.

So, life isn’t so long; you can see its end from the beginning.

Now, at last, he had a chance for change. He might even make the news—though likely paired with words like “mourning” and “regret”—but at least, there was finally a twist in his otherwise colorless story. That was something.

After a long darkness, his hood was yanked off. Ji Ning found himself not in Shenyang’s streets, but in an operating room. The blinding overhead light brought tears to his eyes.

Through squinting lids, he saw a pair of gloves—black as withering life, the opposite of the white, sterile gloves of hope and healing. He shivered, wondering if their owner would drain every ounce of his vitality.

He tried to struggle, but soon gave up. He was handcuffed behind his back, strapped down tight on a restraint bed—something usually reserved for psychiatric wards, save for certain enthusiasts.

The black gloves patted his cheek. “Welcome to SCP Foundation Pennsylvania Branch, site-cn-21. Bit of a tongue-twister, isn’t it? We don’t like it much either. We just call it Branch 21.”

Fighting back tears from the sudden glare, Ji Ning slowly raised his head under the dentist’s lamp. A middle-aged man in a lab coat, but wearing black gloves, smiled at him—the kind of smile a doctor uses to tell a child, “The shot won’t hurt, and you’ll get candy after.”

Ji Ning was sure he was about to be “shot” for real. He clamped his mouth shut, determined to resist.

But the silence didn’t last. Black Gloves was now expelling air from a syringe, crystalline drops glinting at the tip.

“Are you going to inject me with some bizarre drug, and then I’ll die, and all you’ll have to remember me by are a few data points recorded from my demise?” Ji Ning stared in despair at the hand rubbing his arm with antiseptic—the sharp smell dragged up every childhood terror he’d ever known.

The white mask hid Black Gloves’ face, but his eyes smiled. “No need to be so pessimistic. We’re always gentle with obedient children.”

Disinfection done, Black Gloves swiftly drove the needle into Ji Ning’s arm. When finished, he kindly pressed a cotton ball to the spot, taped it down, then sat calmly in the chair before Ji Ning. “But kids who curse aren’t obedient, you know.”

“All right, introduce him,” he said.

Ji Ning turned his head. Behind him sat a woman in the same attire. Their eyes met. Her white mask concealed her face, and her long black hair was tied in a competent ponytail. The only visible features, her black irises, were cold and rational. She looked at Ji Ning as if he were a disposable reagent.

That icy gaze made Ji Ning swallow any retort and sit quietly, hoping he looked as harmless as a lapdog.

“You don’t need to know my name. Hers will suffice,” Black Gloves said languidly, sipping his tea and pointing to the woman.

“You may call me Dr. Quelin,” the woman said, her voice frozen and emotionless, as if it would never thaw.

A light screen, the sort you’d see in a sci-fi film, appeared clearly before Ji Ning. Raised in a small town, he gaped in wonder. He didn’t care for the ever-changing digital releases, but even so, he marveled at the technology. “Wow, high-tech!”

“You’ll get used to it. Compared to what we do every day, enjoying advanced tech is the least of it.” Black Gloves, half-reclined in his chair, seemed to savor a subtle sense of superiority, an invisible wall between him and Ji Ning.

“You’re much calmer than I was the first time I saw all this.” Black Gloves took a pack of cigarettes from his lab coat, lit one, and gazed out the window. There was a pride in his eyes—like a dragon slayer facing his dragon.

The display’s introduction reminded Ji Ning of the edgy secret society he’d wanted to found at fourteen.

“Are you expecting me to believe this is real?” Ji Ning scoffed. “We’re all adults. No need for theatrics—after all…”

He cut himself off as Dr. Quelin pressed a button, and the carpet grew transparent, revealing the scene beneath the glass floor.

Beneath, the building teemed with enormous machines, guided by AI through dazzling lights. Lab coats hurried by, file cases clutched under their arms. The smooth floor was etched with religious symbols, utterly out of place among the machinery—symbols Ji Ning had never seen, yet they struck him to the core.

“How’s that for genuine?” Black Gloves was pleased with his reaction. “We had a professor from Miskatonic University design those. Not the kind of thing a demon could gobble up for breakfast.”

“So, am I some prophesied savior? Is the world on the brink, waiting for me?” Ji Ning bantered, but Dr. Quelin cut him off.

“No. More precisely, we’re about to intervene in your life—for you, you may refer to our organization as the SCP Foundation. The Foundation’s mission is to contain anomalous objects, entities, and phenomena. It operates independently of government jurisdiction, authority, or interference from any nation. These anomalies, whether physical or psychological, pose significant threats to global security. The Foundation maintains normalcy, so people everywhere may live free from fear, disbelief, or doubt—and it shields humanity from the influence of extraterrestrial, extradimensional, and exospatial forces.” She spoke with the ease of someone who had repeated these lines thousands of times.

“We have orders from above. You may be a potential anomaly, but you’re lucky—your rating is Safe, so we chose a gentle method of containment.” Black Gloves’ inscrutable smile was like a fox coddling a chick.

“Containment?”

“That’s what we call it.”

“I have family. I’m not a loner. No need to contain me.”

“All right, let’s put it plainly: we’re going to detain you unlawfully.”

“Hey, you said ‘unlawfully’…”

“It’s easier for a layman to understand. Of course, we’re not really unlawful; we’re the guardians of world order. We’re the final arbiters of mundane law.”

“Can I ask what crime I’ve committed?”

“We’re not sure yet, but the unknown itself is a threat.”

“You’re infringing on my rights! I demand legal counsel. Until I see a lawyer, I refuse all communication and cooperation. I want justice, freedom, and human rights!”

“The Foundation doesn’t bother with that nonsense. Remember, this conversation isn’t a negotiation—it’s a one-sided notification.” Dr. Quelin, whom Ji Ning had mentally labeled a single, hormonally imbalanced spinster, efficiently jabbed a syringe into his shoulder. This time, it wasn’t an injection, but an extraction.

As Ji Ning’s scream rose in his throat, she pressed her collar’s communicator and delivered the final line of the meeting: “Take him away.”

Ten seconds later, two burly men—Arnie’s twin brothers, by the look of them—dragged Ji Ning out like a dead dog.

Poor Ji Ning didn’t even dare to keep up his feeble protests. He’d seen the stun batons at their belts and could only glare at the two brutes in mute outrage.

“I really don’t get it,” Black Gloves mused as Ji Ning was dragged away. “Why do we have to nab an ordinary person, and go through the charade of calling him an anomaly? We’ve checked his nineteen years—he’s the perfect corporate drone in the making.”

Black Gloves shook his head, filled his cup, and settled back in his chair, completely at ease.

“Orders from above, no matter how strange, don’t stop us. Besides, would you really want to understand anomalies? Only monsters understand monsters.” Dr. Quelin, head bowed, scribbled in a file. At the top was a photo of Ji Ning—a selfie taken two months earlier at an amusement park with a friend, now cropped to show only Ji Ning, pouting in dissatisfaction.

Deep in the foundation’s miraculous building, in a vast underground chamber, there was only one small container—filled with utterly clear “water.”

A technician, just finished with routine maintenance, closed the door behind him, doffed his protective gear, and looked forward to a movie date with his girlfriend, along with another discussion about the harmony of life.

Backtrack time by 352 hours, 34 minutes, and 13 seconds: a mosquito, which should have died under a slap, slipped away. It dodged a hungry swift, hid in a corner, and waited until a Mobile Task Force member passed by.

Its legend could have been immortalized in the annals of mosquito-kind—if only it had managed to mate. Alas, it hadn’t found its soulmate.

Like a mosquito Don Quixote, it charged a protective suit—and, unsurprisingly, snapped its proboscis.

But in a twist, the windmill was pierced—the tiniest millimeter-wide breach appeared. Ten seconds later, a wisp of “water vapor” silently seeped through the suit.

The maintenance report for SCP-CN-655 was completed; the technician sighed with relief, called his girlfriend, and after making their evening plans, wore the smile all men understand—the process is for the result, after all.

No one knew that at this moment, a near-invisible wisp of “water vapor” drifted through the building, searching for its destined host.

From violent resistance to silent protest, then to acceptance, Ji Ning lived by the creed: if you can’t fight, enjoy it. His cell was actually a bit larger than his university dorm, so he had no complaints about the living space. He wasn’t required to work; meals were provided, and perhaps thanks to years of cafeteria food, he found the fare surprisingly good.

The room had a private toilet, a shower with twenty-four-hour hot water, and cleaning staff came every three days—though they always left with suspicious tubes. Still, with every chore handled, Ji Ning felt almost as if he were on vacation.

Everything was fine—except for one thing, which kept his resolve to escape burning bright: there was no internet. Other than a weekly book of his choice, he had no entertainment and no contact with the outside world.

It was an island—a room disguised as an island, devoid of sand and sea.

Two weeks in, tormented by a poor book choice—Finnegans Wake—Ji Ning slammed the volume shut.

He’d accepted that the world was not as peaceful as it seemed, but hearing a faint, disembodied voice was a step too far. He blamed the damned book for driving him mad.

“Human…”

Ji Ning swore he’d never heard a voice like that—it came from inside his head, not through his ears.

“Escape.” The voice grew clearer, especially after he poked his ear with a tissue.

“Who… who are you?” he ventured. He figured it wouldn’t be long before he was talking to paper dolls. If solitude continued, he’d soon be naming them Adam and Eve.

“You… may call me… SCP-CN-655.” The voice sharpened, elegant as a polished bronze mirror, yet stilted as if synthesized.

After confirming the reality of the voice, Ji Ning tried to sound unafraid—but his trembling finger betrayed him. “That’s quite a name. All right, what’s the price for escape? Don’t tell me it’s out of kindness.”

He knew well enough that two prisoners whispering could only be plotting an escape.

Though Ji Ning understood that anomalies existed, and that their allegiances were not human, he still chose to cooperate. The reason was simple: young people adapt quickly, and he hadn’t forgotten that the SCP Foundation now classified him as an anomaly too.

But SCP-CN-655 seemed unaware of his fidgeting—or perhaps, it could do nothing but talk.

“Cooperation. You… me… both benefit. You… leave. I… return home.” The awkward phrasing was clear enough.

After weighing the pros and cons for three seconds, Ji Ning, who had nothing to lose, gave up on spending his life in this damned little room.

Put poetically, he was only twenty—he’d come to this world to see the sun. More bluntly, a man’s life is meant to be wasted on money and women; how could he be content to be a model prisoner?

Steeling himself, he reopened Finnegans Wake to page one, asking himself: read this again, or stage a Shawshank Redemption? Every cell in his body screamed for escape.

“Deal. So, how do I—” Before he finished, he felt something slide down his throat and began to gag. “What… the hell…”

His power of speech abandoned him. His mouth produced only meaningless sounds; his tongue and teeth vanished, and soon the sensation spread to his face, chest, and then his whole body.

Suddenly, Ji Ning’s vision shifted. The room took on a bizarre new perspective, and he realized—he had become a puddle of water. A real, honest-to-god puddle.

“You… help… SCP-CN-655.” The stilted voice echoed in his mind, but Ji Ning, prepared as he was, accepted it calmly—until he realized he couldn’t move the water.

“How do I change back?” Silence. “Hello? You there?”

Only after he’d stopped his futile calls did SCP-CN-655 reply, with just one word: “Feel.”

Now the world danced and spun before Ji Ning, as vivid as a swirling cocktail. He struggled like a drowning man, but it was useless.

His senses twisted, his brain overwhelmed by unfamiliar sensations. Every boundary blurred, every feeling corroded. Despairing, Ji Ning thought drowning might be preferable—but as he gave up resistance, the suffocation softened, becoming gentle, like finding the only light after ten thousand miles of darkness. That light glowed with a faint halo, illuminating his world. The overwhelming sensation formed new neural pathways in his cortex, and with it came an unfamiliar but complete new neural regulating system.

He could sense that SCP-CN-655 had created an organ or a glowing spiritual body inside him. Yet, when he approached, it did not reject him; it was calm, as if it were his birthright.

“Why is the monitoring feed for cell D-547 frozen?”

“I don’t know—maybe a network glitch? It’s just a Safe-class holding cell. Shoddy equipment is understandable, right?”

The two researchers in the observation room chatted idly, switching screens without much concern—who would turn down a chance to slack off at work?

Thousands of miles away, on an Atlantic island, the sunset painted the horizon blood-red, like a blooming scarlet rose. A woman in a Gothic gown faced the sea and whispered, “The Prometheus Project has succeeded.”

She kissed the Loreimas rose in her hand. Like melting ice, it vanished into the air. The tide washed over her pale ankles, and when it receded, only two shallow letters remained in the sand—“L.S.”