The sudden turn of events left the multiverse stunned.
For three agonizing seconds, the chat group erupted:
"GOD—WHEELER DETONATED THE ANTI-MEME BOMB?!"
"THE FICTIONAL AMPLIFIER WAS NEVER BUILT! THEY LOST?!"
"FOUR THOUSAND LIVES... FOR NOTHING?!"
Despair.
Fury.
Defiance.
Then—SCP-3125 arrived in winter.
The First Casualty: The Foundation.
Thousands of personnel vanished overnight.
Sites became haunted ruins.
Anomalies either escaped or suffocated under SCP-3125's memetic suppression.
The Second Casualty: Reality.
Flesh-architecture pulsed like living tumors.
Eight-ton balls of mold and maggots rolled through streets.
Finger-beasts with infinite regenerative claws stalked the dark.
The audience vomited, screamed, begged for it to stop.
MK-Class had come.
The world ended as SCP-3125 decreed:
"My world. My way."
Feng Bujue's Fate:
Rebranded as "Ulrich," he was assigned to MTF-0 "Orphaned Memories"—a squad of mutilated minds clinging to existence.
Their mission?
Find Bart Hughes. Find allies. Survive.
But survival was a joke.
This was choosing how to die.
Wheeler's Fate:
Her Class-Z ravaged brain had ascended—not as a heroic ideologue, but as a broken ghost.
She could barely think.
She could barely speak.
Yet—
One night, she whispered:
"Adam."
Feng Bujue startled. "You remember him?"
"I remember... everything."
Each word was agony.
The audience ached.
Adam—her erased husband.
Now a shred of memory, plucked from SCP-3125's core.
Adam's Fate:
He awoke on a cold school floor, two fingers missing.
A black slug fell from his tear duct.
He barely noticed.
This was normal now.
A phone rang.
He answered.
A synthetic voice (Feng Bujue) spoke:
"Mr. Adam. You've been ill a long time. A woman in Room W16 is dying."
The Chat Group's Dread:
"Adam? What can HE do?!"
"The world's already DEAD!"
"This is just... cruelty."
But—
A spark.
A memory.
A husband's love.
Final Transmission:
The screen flickered, showing Room W16.
Wheeler's spectral form hovered over a machine—
Not the Fictional Amplifier.
Something older.
Something simpler.
A tape recorder.
It played one phrase, looping:
"Ideas can be killed... with better ones."
Then—
Static.