I just wanted a couple of sandwiches. At home, I sliced a few pieces, ate them, and put the rest in the fridge. Everything seemed perfectly normal.

This morning, I decided to make breakfast. I took out the same sausage, grabbed a knife — and suddenly realized it was cutting strangely, like there was something hard inside. I assumed it might have frozen a bit. But when I cut another slice, the knife stopped abruptly. I leaned in — and froze: something shiny was buried deep in the center.

At first, I thought it was a piece of metal. I kept picking at it, and finally pulled out… a USB flash drive. A perfectly normal, several-gigabyte flash drive. My stomach twisted in disgust — I had already eaten this sausage! How could a flash drive even end up inside a factory-sealed product?

But curiosity won out over revulsion. I turned on my computer, plugged in the flash drive — and went rigid at what I saw.

There were no normal files at all — just a single folder with a name that sent ice down my spine: “DO NOT OPEN.”

Somehow, I even let out a nervous laugh — as if the whole situation wasn’t already surreal enough. Finding a flash drive inside processed meat? And now it tries to warn me? But there was a quiet alarm ringing in the back of my mind: maybe don’t open that.

I opened it anyway.

Inside were dozens of video files. Each with bland names like “cam1,” “sec3,” “batchA,” “test4.” I clicked on the first one.

The screen showed a dim industrial room lit by a bluish light. It looked like a factory floor. The camera swung shakily toward a conveyor belt. On it — rows of raw sausage casings. Workers in white coats stood on both sides doing something with them.

Suddenly, one worker bent closer, glanced around nervously — and slipped a tiny object into one of the meat casings. Almost exactly the same size as the flash drive in my hand. His movements were frantic, guilty. He clearly knew whatever he was doing was forbidden.

The video cut off.

I opened the next one. On it — a middle-aged man in the same factory uniform, filmed in close-up. He spoke into the camera in a rushed whisper:
— If you found this… it means they didn’t stop. They’re still doing it. You have to tell someone… before it’s too late…

His face twitched; his eyes darted like a cornered animal. Then he said something that made my skin crawl:
— This product… is not what it appears to be. It… changes people. Watch those who eat it regularly. It starts subtly…

The audio dissolved into static. The video ended.

I sat frozen. Everything inside me wanted to dismiss it — this is nonsense, a prank, some bizarre viral hoax. But one fact killed that explanation:
the flash drive was literally inside the food I bought.
This wasn’t a random internet mystery. It was in my kitchen. On my cutting board.

I kept watching. The next clips showed storage rooms, documents on tables stamped and signed, masked workers stamping boxes, shipments being loaded into trucks.

In one clip, by now the same terrified man looked straight into the camera, no longer whispering:
— If you see this… do not buy anything from—

And again the audio cut. His lips moved, and I desperately tried to read them. It looked like he was naming the brand. The same brand printed on my packaging.

I pulled the flash drive away from me like it was toxic.

And then — the most disturbing realization — a taste in my mouth.
A faint metallic aftertaste.
I had chalked it up to nerves before. But now…

I jumped up, rushed to the bathroom, rinsed, spit, washed my mouth, drank water. But the unease wasn’t just physical — it felt like something intangible had already slipped past the surface.

When I returned, I hesitated before watching more. I didn’t want to… but I also felt that I had to.

The final video was the shortest. The same man, looking exhausted and resigned, spoke clearly:
— They’re monitoring consumers. Through the product. Through us.

Then silence.

I sat perfectly still. Thoughts collided in my mind:

Should I go to the police? The news? Should I just throw this thing away? Pretend it never happened?

But then the most unsettling thought came to me:
Did I find that flash drive by accident… or was I meant to?

I didn’t sleep that night. I lay awake in the dark, eyes open, listening to my thoughts. This wasn’t a joke anymore. It wasn’t silly, or absurd.

It was personal. And frightening.

Because the flash drive is still in my possession.
And somewhere — maybe right now — another file is being recorded.
Another warning.