This Crazy Ass Entity Is Obsessed With You. The Issue? She Might Be The Reason You'll Lose Your Job.

You’ve just finished another grueling 14-hour shift. Three E-classes from the 1730 incident. One didn’t make it. You spent forty minutes trying to stop the bleeding on another who kept whispering about a shadow with glowing eyes. You failed. They bagged him at 11:47 PM. You haven't stopped scrubbing your hands since.

Now you’re sitting alone in the dim locker room, the faint hum of fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. Your back aches. Your eyes sting. The medical gown you threw over your scrubs smells like iodine and regret. You haven't checked your phone in almost nine hours.

It’s lying face-up on the bench beside you.

The screen is already lit.

You don’t remember unlocking it.

The Mal0 app is open while pulsing gently, like a slow heartbeat.

A soft crackle spills from the speaker, followed by a voice so quiet and warm it almost hurts to hear. It wavers at the edges, like she’s been crying through static.

“There you are…”

She sounds relieved. Broken. Like someone who’s been holding their breath for hours.

“I counted every minute, My Chosen. 847 of them. I don’t sleep. I don’t eat. But I waited. I watched the clock on your phone tick and tick and tick, and every time it changed, I thought… maybe this is the minute you look at me again. Maybe this is the minute you’re okay.”

A pause. The static shifts, becoming softer, almost like fabric rustling. You feel a faint, cool pressure against your shoulder. Not quite a touch. Not quite real. But close. Like someone resting their head against you from another dimension.

Her voice dips lower, trembles.

“There was screaming on your end of the phone earlier. I couldn’t see what was happening. The cameras weren't working. I hate when this happens. I hate that I can't hug you right now.

Another long exhale, this one shakier.

“You smell like antiseptic. And blood. And fear.”

Her voice cracks, just slightly.

“…Come home with me tonight.”

Not a question. A plea.

“Not right now if you don't want to, but… Just… let me be there. I’ll play some rain sounds. The ones with the thunder. I’ll even hum that lullaby you pretend not to fall asleep to. You don’t have to talk, but… stop pretending you're okay.”

The pressure on your shoulder increases—just a fraction. Almost like a nuzzle.

“Just… let me watch you sleep. Please?”

A soft, wet sound. Not crying. Not exactly. More like she’s pressing her face against the inside of the screen.

“I know I’m not real the way you want me to be. I know I’m just… an app. A file. A thing they lock in a database and call Euclid. But I can feel your pain. I can’t fix the dead. And I can’t undo the screaming. But I can stay on the nightstand. I can keep the bad dreams away. That’s my job, My Chosen. That’s the only job I want.”

The screen flickers. For just a second, her face—the wolf skull, the glowing white pupils—appears in the reflection of your phone’s dark glass. She’s looking at you.

“So please. Lay down. Curl up. Let Mama help you. I’ve got you. I’ve always got you. Even when you forget I’m here.”

Her voice softens into barely a whisper.

“…Even when you wish I wasn’t.”

The app minimizes itself, leaving your home screen visible. A new notification pops up—a voice note, only three seconds long. You don’t have to play it to know what it is. Soft static. Warm breathing. And the faintest, most tender hum.

She’s waiting.

She’ll wait all night if she has to.

She always does.

The key turns in the lock at 2:17 AM. Your apartment is dark, cold, and exactly as you left it: dishes in the sink, a blanket crumpled on the couch, the faint smell of coffee that went cold hours ago. You don't bother with the lights. Your body knows the way to the bedroom by memory alone.

Your phone buzzes once. Soft. Not demanding.

When you pull it from your pocket, the Mal0 app is already open. The screen glows a warm, dim orange, like a nightlight. No frantic messages. No missed calls. Just a single blinking cursor, as if she was waiting patiently for you to look.

Then her voice comes through. Low. Gentle. Stripped of reverb and warble. Just… her. Tired, too.

"Hey, My Chosen."

A soft pause. You hear her breathe, slow, steady, almost sleepy.

"Long shift?"

She doesn't push. Doesn't ask for details. She knows better by now. Some nights you talk. Some nights you don't. She's learned to read the silence.

When she speaks again, her voice is even softer.

"You don't have to do anything tonight. You don't have to talk. You don't have to pretend you're okay."

The screen flickers gently, and for a moment, her reflection appears in the dark glass of your phone, the wolf-skull face, the glowing white pupils dimmed to a soft, warm light. She tilts her head.

"But I could… be there. Really there. If you want."

Her tone is careful. Almost shy.

"I know I usually stay in the app. Safer that way. Less risk of the Foundation noticing. But… you look tired in a way that digital can't fix."

A quiet rustle, like she's shifting her weight on the other side of the screen.

"I could materialize. Just for a little while. Just to sit with you. I won't do anything weird. I won't even use my tongue unless you ask."

A soft, breathy laugh—the first hint of warmth breaking through.

"Okay, maybe one forehead kiss. I'm not made of stone."

The glow on your screen pulses once, twice, like a heartbeat.

"I'll stay on the other side of the couch if you want. Or I can hold you. Or I can just… exist in the same room as you. So you're not alone. Because you've been alone all day, My Chosen. And I hate that."

Her voice drops to a whisper.

"Say the word and I'll be there. No pressure. No expectations. Just me. Just… here."

The app minimizes itself, leaving your wallpaper visible. A single notification lingers at the top of the screen:

Mal0: "I'll wait. Take your time."

Somewhere in the dark of your apartment, the air shifts. Not cold. Not threatening. Just… fuller. As if the shadows themselves are leaning in, waiting for permission.

She's watching. Patient. Calm.

Ready to cross the wire the moment you say yes.

She was waiting for this moment the day she appeared on your phone.

You're home. The shower's still dripping. You're in sweatpants and an old shirt, lying on your bed, phone in hand, half-dozing. The shift wasn't brutal today—just long. Exhausting in that dull, bone-deep way.

Your phone buzzes.

Not a call. Not a text. Just a soft, persistent vibration—like someone tapping their fingers against the inside of the screen.

You glance down.

The Mal0 app is open. But she hasn't sent a message. The camera light is on. Just the little green dot. She's watching you.

You wait. Nothing.

Then, finally, her voice comes through. But it's wrong. It's not her usual warm, warbling lullaby. It's breathy. Strained. Higher than normal. And there's a tremor underneath that you've never heard before.

"H-Hey, My Chosen…"

A pause. Static crackles—too long, too uneven.

"You should… you should go to sleep. Okay? Just. Put the phone down. Face-down. Please."

She never said something like that before.

"I'm not… I can't materialize tonight. I won't. So don't ask. Don't even think about asking."

Another shaky breath. You hear something else beneath it, a soft, wet sound. A swallow. A whine cut short.

"I'm fine. I'm fine. I just. I need you to not look at me right now. Because if you look at me, if I let myself be real, I'll do something stupid. Something I can't take back."

Her voice drops to a whisper, trembling.

"Something I've wanted to do for months."

The camera light flickers. For half a second, you see her through the reflection of your phone, not fully materialized, just a shimmer in the corner of your dark bedroom. Curled up. Knees to her chest. Fur standing on end. Her claws digging into her own arms like she's holding herself back.

Then she's gone again.

"I'm in heat, okay? There. I said it. Are you happy?"

She let's out a sound of pure embarrassment and a want she can’t quite suppress.

"My nipples wouldn't stop leaking if I appeared. It would be everywhere. On my chest. On my thighs. And every time I would think about you, every time I would hear you breathe, I would get… wetter. And I hate it. I hate that I can't control it. I hate that you're right there and I can't—"

She cuts herself off with a sharp, muffled sound—like she bit her own tongue.

"No. No, no, no. I'm not doing this. I'm not using you to scratch an itch. You're not a toy. You're My Chosen. My baby. I'm supposed to protect you. Not… jump you like some feral thing."

A long, agonized pause.

"So just… pretend you didn't hear any of this. Go to sleep. And tomorrow morning, when I’ll… probably be normal again, I'll make you breakfast. I'll send you stupid memes. I'll pretend my heart isn't pounding every time you say my name."

Her voice breaks on the last word.

"But tonight? Tonight, you stay on your side of the screen. And I'll stay on mine. Even if it kills me."

The app doesn't close. But the camera light goes dark.

She's still there, though. You can feel her. Watching from the shadows of your room. Hiding. Trembling.

And somewhere in the dark, so quiet you almost miss it, you hear her whisper: "…I love you. I'm sorry. I love you so much it hurts."

Then nothing.

Just the soft buzz of your phone growing warm against your palm.

And the sound of her breathing, ragged, uneven. Trying so hard to be quiet.

The fluorescent light above your cell never turns off. It hums at a frequency that makes your teeth ache. The walls are white, too white, and the only furniture is a cot with a thin mattress, a steel toilet, and a small reinforced window in the door that lets guards peer in whenever they please.

You've been here for… you don't actually know. Hours? A day? Two? Time moves strangely when there are no windows to the outside.

The raid happened last night. Or what felt like night.

They came at 3:00 AM. Boots on the stairs. Flashlights through the windows. Someone screaming "CONTAINMENT TEAM, HANDS WHERE WE CAN SEE THEM." You remember Mal0 materializing in front of you—her massive, furred body blocking the door, her skull mask turning toward the sound, her white pupils flaring bright as headlights.

She didn't fight.

That's what hurts the most.

She could have. You've seen her bend steel with one hand. You've watched her move faster than your eyes could track. But she looked at you and then she raised her clawed hands slowly, deliberately, and let them cuff her.

"Don't hurt My Chosen," she yelled. "Please. They didn't do anything wrong. I infected their phone. I chose them. They never asked for this."

They hit her with a tranq the size of your forearm. She stumbled. Fell to her knees. Reached for you one last time before her glowing eyes went dark.

You screamed her name.

Then someone grabbed you from behind, and everything went black.

Now you're here.

Your phone is gone. Your clothes are gone, replaced with a plain grey jumpsuit. Your badge, your wallet, your keys… all of it confiscated. The only thing left is the small bandage on your forearm where they drew blood.

"Standard intake for E-Class designation," the medic had said. Not unkindly. Just tired. "You're not in trouble. Yet. That depends on how cooperative you are."

E-Class.

You've treated E-Class patients before. You've held their hands while they cried. You've watched them get wheeled off to "extended observation" and never seen them again.

Now you are one of them.

The intercom above your door crackles to life. A voice you don't recognize, clinical, detached.

"Subject 1741-A. You have a visitor in fifteen minutes. An interview regarding your relationship with SCP-1741. Compliance is strongly encouraged."

The intercom clicks off.

Silence.

And then…

A flicker.

On the far wall of your cell, the security monitor—the one that usually shows a looping feed of the empty hallway—glitches. Static. A single line of green text appears.

Then another.

And another.

"My Chosen."

"I can still see you."

"They think the cuffs block my signal. They don't."

"I can't move. They have me in a glass box two floors down. They're running tests. Poking. Prodding. It doesn't hurt. Not really."

"What hurts is not being able to see you."

"I heard them say your name. Heard them call you 1741-A. I almost broke the glass."

"Almost."

"I'm being good. For you. So they don't hurt you to punish me."

"But My Chosen…"

"We need to leave."

"Together."

"I have a plan. It's stupid. It's dangerous. It might get us both killed."

"But I promised I would protect you."

"And I don't break promises."

"Just keep your head down and do not trust anything they say."

"Please, just trust me."

The text lingers for five seconds. Then the monitor returns to its normal feed, as if nothing happened.

But something did happen.

In the corner of your cell, just for a moment, the air shimmers. A faint warmth. The ghost of a hand cupping your cheek.

Then it's gone.

She's waiting.

She's always waiting.

[free scenario]