The voice of the massive black shadow still echoed in the burning room, its words filled with unwillingness and confusion, making one final, desperate plea.
"Why?! Why on earth did you do this?! What's the point?!"
James stood calmly amidst the chaos. The flames licked at the wooden floor around him, devouring everything in sight. His silhouette flickered in the firelight as he repeated the question softly, almost as if he was genuinely contemplating it.
"Why?" he murmured, lowering his head as though deep in thought. After a long pause, he smiled faintly. "Let's just say… I had a sudden whim. I wanted to see what it would feel like to play the role of a hero."
A short chuckle followed, light and amused—as though even he found the idea ridiculous.
"Who would've thought that the real secret behind pretending to be a D-class personnel… is actually trying to be a hero?"
Then, his expression darkened. His voice lowered, steady and cold. "Besides, you disgust me even more than those people in the Foundation."
He looked directly into the shadow's eyes, and for the first time, there wasn't a hint of fear. The monster—whatever it was—held no power over him now.
They stared at each other for a few long seconds. Then James laughed again. Not the hollow, tired laugh of someone surviving tragedy, but a deep, hearty one. A laugh full of release, of joy.
At that moment, James truly felt like himself again.
He was no longer the frightened soul who had suddenly been thrown into the strange, terrifying world of the SCP Foundation.
He was no longer a mere D-class personnel forced to act like an emotionless machine to satisfy some strange system and fulfill its role-playing tasks.
He wasn't a pawn, a prisoner, or a puppet anymore.
He was James.
Just James.
Yes, he still bore another identity—the badge around his neck read:
D-14134.
But that no longer defined him.
The room was now bathed in blazing firelight. The high concentration of alcohol that had spilled during the mission was burning furiously. Flames danced hungrily across the walls and floor, consuming everything. Only a small circle remained untouched by the fire—a shrinking island where James stood.
He knew he didn't have much time left.
His body was already pushed far beyond its limits. He was bleeding, broken, and burned. Every breath was a struggle. But, for this brief moment, his mind was clear.
Crystal clear.
He knew that the end was here.
He looked down, took a deep breath, and reached for the gun strapped to his waist. He pulled it out with his only remaining arm. Inside the chamber was the last silver bullet.
It felt like holding the weight of the world.
This was the final step in a plan that had always been too big, too insane. A plan like a snake trying to swallow an elephant.
But James had never truly expected to survive it.
From the beginning, he had known it would end like this.
He raised the gun slowly, pressing the muzzle against his own chest. Through the cold metal, he could feel the rapid, chaotic beating of his heart.
Outside the screen, in the Marvel world, the live stream showed this moment in perfect detail. Countless eyes watched in silence. Viewers across the world stared in disbelief, their hearts pounding as if they too could feel that heartbeat.
Wasn't the ritual already reversed?
Hadn't he succeeded?
Then…
Why?
Why was he still doing this?
In the broadcast, James's eyes remained closed, but a small, serene smile curved his lips.
Plop…
Plop…
He could still feel his heartbeat.
And then he whispered.
"There has never been any god so high that we cannot look directly at him. The true God… is beating in your chest, always."
His words echoed, soft but powerful.
The kind of words that carve themselves into your memory.
Then, in one smooth motion, he pulled the trigger.
Bang!
The gunshot echoed like thunder in a tomb. It wasn't loud, but it struck through the silence with the weight of finality.
The room seemed to shake.
Even the dead realm, the warped space created by SCP-1983, trembled from the shot.
Seconds passed in eerie silence.
Then—clack. The sound of the gun falling from his lifeless fingers.
His body slumped backward, slowly falling to the floor.
The fire surged.
The wooden structure creaked under the heat, and the crackling of flames filled the air like a requiem.
The light grew brighter and brighter, swallowing the room like a tide.
And then, James—D-14134—was gone.
Consumed by fire.
Burned into memory.
As the scene faded to black, a short notice appeared on the live stream screen:
On [DATA EXPUNGED], D-14134 was equipped with a closed-circuit camera connected to a monitor via a 25-meter cord.
He was instructed to explore as far as possible within SCP-1983 and attempt to return afterward.
As he passed through the doorway, the video feed abruptly cut out.
The rope connecting him to the camera went taut… and then snapped.
Several hours later, the anomalous effects of SCP-1983-1 ceased entirely.
Inside, Foundation agents recovered multiple mummified corpses, Document 1983-15—a report written by an agent during exposure to the anomaly—and…
The final video recording left by D-14134.
The object is presumed destroyed by D-14134.
Posthumous commendation: Awarded the Foundation Star.
And then—
Silence.
In the Marvel universe, the effect was immediate.
Everyone who had been watching sat frozen, stunned.
They had followed every second of James's journey, watching him suffer, struggle, fight, and finally… make the ultimate sacrifice.
They had seen his pain, his growth, and now… his end.
"I… is this really the end?"
"Damn it… He could've died in less pain. Why did he go out like that?"
"'The real God is always beating in your chest…' That's what James believed. And now… I believe it too."
"I wasn't ready for this ending. I thought he made it…"
"I didn't think I'd cry today, but damn…"
Inside SHIELD headquarters, Nick Fury remained seated, staring at the darkened screen. The fire still danced in his mind, the look on James's face seared into his thoughts.
There were so many questions. Why had James gone so far? Why was he willing to give everything?
There were no answers.
Just silence.
Finally, after what seemed like an eternity, Nick Fury slowly stood up, removed his hat, and saluted.
A silent gesture.
A tribute.
One by one, the SHIELD agents followed. All across the headquarters, men and women stood tall and saluted.
The image spread.
From SHIELD, to Wakanda.
From Kamar-Taj, to the highest towers of Blue Star.
In labs, in homes, in streets, in fortresses.
People stood.
They saluted.
Not for a god.
Not for a super-soldier.
But for an ordinary man.
A man from another world who had the heart to do one impossible thing—just one stupid, heroic thing.
James became more than a name.
He became a monument.
A legend.
A reminder that even the weakest among us can do the strongest things.
At Stark Tower, Tony Stark sat alone. His fingers tapped restlessly against the armrest of his chair. He'd seen heroes rise and fall. But something about this… this was different.
James had no suit, no tech, no powers.
He had a broken body, a broken heart—and a will that refused to bend.
Tony finally let out a deep breath and smiled, bittersweet.
"Maybe this is what it means to be a hero," he whispered. "Maybe this… is what I forgot."
The screen in the sky remained black.
But just as the Marvel world began to mourn…
Just as the tears were falling…
Just as the pain set in—
The screen flickered.
New words appeared in glowing text above the world:
[James's Second Memory from His Previous Life!]
[Starting Soon!]
[Keywords of This Episode: Mobile Task Force, Thaumatologist, Reality Bender]
Silence fell again.
Followed by gasps.
Followed by hope.
James… might not be done yet.
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