Ingvar Kamprad's home was modest.
That alone told me everything I needed to know about the man.
Despite having just founded what would one day become a global empire, he lived like someone who expected the world to remain small. Clean lines. Practical furniture. No unnecessary luxury. The irony was almost painful.
Lincoln sat across from me at the narrow wooden table, posture calm, eyes observant. He looked every bit the statesman—measured, patient, endlessly polite. I, on the other hand, was already tired.
Not physically.
Mentally.
Kamprad poured coffee with careful hands, smiling nervously as if hosting two ordinary businessmen instead of representatives of the most powerful organization on Earth.
"I still don't quite understand," he said. "You want to buy the company outright? All of it?"
"Yes," Lincoln replied smoothly. "Every asset. Every warehouse. Every design. Every trademark. We believe IKEA has… potential."
I almost smirked.
If only you knew.
SCP-3008—the infinite IKEA—wasn't a possibility to us. It was an inevitability. A spatial anomaly waiting for the right corporate conditions, the right scale, the right moment to tear reality open and turn retail into an endless consumerist labyrinth populated by things that pretended to be people.
We weren't going to contain it later.
We were going to prevent it entirely.
And that meant IKEA could never be allowed to grow unchecked.
Kamprad leaned back, fingers steepled. "I've already received offers. Not like yours, but still. The brand is young, yes, but the concept is revolutionary. Flat-pack furniture. Affordable. Scalable."
"Which is precisely why we're interested," Lincoln said.
Kamprad named his price.
I felt my eyebrow twitch.
Ten times the company's actual value. At least.
Lincoln didn't react. I did—internally. The Foundation had vast resources, yes, but we didn't throw money away when precision was cheaper. And this? This was extortion fueled by ambition.
Negotiations dragged on.
Hours of back-and-forth. Counteroffers. Justifications. Kamprad spoke passionately about independence, about building something that would last generations. He wasn't greedy in the usual sense—he was protective. IKEA was his child.
Which made this harder.
And more annoying.
At one point, as Kamprad went on about future international expansion, I let a thread of subtle mind magic brush against his thoughts. Nothing crude. No domination. Just… emphasis.
Doubt, nudged gently.Fatigue, amplified slightly.The idea that this deal—our deal—was the safest possible future for his creation.
His next counteroffer dropped sharply.
Lincoln glanced at me, just briefly.
I gave the faintest shrug.
Time is money, after all.
Eventually, we reached a number. Reasonable. Controlled. Acceptable.
Contracts were signed. Ink dried. IKEA—every warehouse, every design document, every future possibility—became Foundation property, quietly transferred through shell corporations and legal fronts so deep no government on Earth would ever trace them back to us.
Then came the cleanup.
Kamprad was paid generously—enough to ensure comfort, stability, and silence. Amnestics were administered carefully, selectively. He would remember selling the company, yes, but not to whom. Not the why. Not the unease he'd felt every time he tried to push the price too high.
We offered him a position at one of our front companies. Executive role. Real authority. A good salary. A life of success without the risk of accidentally tearing a hole in spacetime via furniture retail.
He accepted.
Of course he did.
As we stood to leave, Kamprad shook our hands. "I hope IKEA does well," he said sincerely.
"Oh," I replied, meeting his eyes, "it will."
Just not in the way history expected.
Outside, as we walked toward the waiting vehicle, Lincoln exhaled slowly. "That's one anomaly prevented before it ever existed."
I nodded. "No infinite aisles. No lost civilians. No… whatever those things inside 3008 were."
"And no paperwork," Lincoln added.
That earned a rare smile from me.
The car door closed behind us, and as we drove away, I allowed myself a moment of satisfaction.
Some anomalies required armies.Some required magic.And some—like SCP-3008—only required a contract, a signature, and foresight.
History would never know how close it came to getting lost forever in a maze of flat-pack furniture.
And that was exactly how we wanted it.