Nothing special — just something for dinner. I wanted a few sandwiches, nothing more.
At home, I sliced a few pieces, ate, wrapped up the rest, and put it in the fridge. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

The next morning, I took out the same sausage. I was half awake, cutting it for breakfast — when the knife suddenly stopped. It hit something hard.
I frowned. Maybe it was frozen? I pressed harder, but the blade refused to move. Then I saw it: a faint metallic glint inside the meat.

I cut deeper and froze. There, buried in the middle of the sausage, was a USB flash drive.

For a moment, I just stared. My mind refused to process what I was seeing. How could something like this end up inside a factory-sealed product? And worse — I had already eaten from it.

Disgust fought with curiosity, but curiosity won. I plugged the USB into my laptop. It contained only one folder, labeled “Data_01”.
Inside were dozens of photos.

At first, they looked harmless: factory workers, metal tables, meat grinders, conveyor belts. But as I kept clicking, the images became darker, stranger.
Some showed what looked like… human shapes.

One photo in particular made my stomach twist. A human arm lay stretched out on a steel table. The skin, the veins, the fingernails — it was horrifyingly real. Another image showed a man in a mask holding a large butcher’s knife. The lighting, the angles — none of it looked staged.

My hands shook as I closed the laptop. But after a few minutes, fear gave way to something else — a desperate need to know. I reopened the folder. There was one more file: “video_1.mp4.”

I clicked play.

The footage was grainy, filmed from a corner of a cold industrial room. Workers in white coats moved around, whispering. Then, a man in black entered. Everyone went silent. Someone dragged a large black plastic bag onto the table. When they unzipped it, something rolled out — an unmistakably human body.

I slammed the laptop shut. My pulse hammered in my throat.
Checking the file details, I saw the creation date: four days ago.
That meant whatever I’d just watched had happened right before that sausage hit the store shelves.

I called the grocery store.
“Hi, I bought one of your products yesterday, and I found—”
A man’s voice cut me off sharply.
“Where did you get it?”
“I… from your store, on Elm Street.”
A pause. Then, coldly:
“Delete everything. Now. This isn’t for you.”

The line went dead.

That night, a black car appeared outside my building. It sat there for hours, headlights off. The next night, it came back. And the one after that.
I told myself it was paranoia, but deep down I knew — someone was watching.

A few days later, I couldn’t take it anymore. I took the flash drive to the river and threw it in. I watched it sink, thinking it was over.

It wasn’t.

The next morning, an envelope was waiting in my mailbox.
No stamp. No name.
Inside — a photo of my apartment building, taken at night.
On the back, written in small, uneven letters: “You shouldn’t have done that.”

Since then, sleep has become impossible. Every sound in the hallway makes me jump. Every car engine outside sounds like a warning.
Yesterday, a police officer knocked on my door. He said there were ongoing inspections in several meat-processing plants nearby.
When I asked if it had anything to do with the product I’d bought, he gave me a long, unreadable look.
Then he said quietly:
“Forget what you saw. For your own sake.”

I packed a bag that night and left town.
Now I live hundreds of kilometers away. But sometimes, when I open a fridge and see a piece of meat wrapped in plastic, my hands start to shake.

And every once in a while, in the middle of the night, I hear that voice echoing in my head —
“Delete everything.”

But one thought keeps haunting me:
What if that flash drive wasn’t placed there by accident?
What if someone wanted me to find it?