Nothing fancy, nothing gourmet — just a cheap processed meat product for a few quick sandwiches. When I got home, I sliced several pieces, ate them without a second thought, and stored the rest in the fridge. The taste was normal, the smell was normal, everything seemed absolutely ordinary. I had no idea that the next morning would turn into one of the strangest experiences of my life.

Early the next day, I took the same salami out of the fridge, placed it on the cutting board, and began slicing. As soon as the knife sank in, I felt an odd resistance. I assumed it was just cold and firm from the refrigerator. But when I tried to cut a second slice, the blade stopped abruptly, almost as if it had hit a bone — which made no sense in processed meat. I leaned in closer and noticed something reflecting the kitchen light from inside the salami.

Curiosity mixed with confusion, I carefully carved around the shiny spot until a solid object emerged. When I finally pulled it out, my stomach turned: it was a small USB flash drive. It was greasy, covered in tiny red meat fibers, and entirely out of place. A second later, an unpleasant realization hit me — I had eaten that same salami less than 24 hours earlier. How did a flash drive end up embedded in a mass-produced food item sealed in factory packaging?

Disgust was quickly replaced by morbid curiosity. I wiped the flash drive with paper towels until it was clean enough to handle, then plugged it into my laptop. The computer recognized it immediately and displayed three files: two compressed folders and one plain text document. There were no personal photos, no music, no random documents — nothing resembling a private user’s drive. Just those three files.

I opened the text document first. It contained only one line:

“If you are reading this, the distribution chain has been disrupted. Follow the instructions in the archive.”

I stared at the screen, stunned. The wording wasn’t casual or humorous. It sounded technical, internal, and intentionally vague. It didn’t look like a prank, and it didn’t feel like a production accident. It felt like something meant for someone else entirely — someone within a specific system, someone who would immediately know what that sentence meant.

With growing unease, I opened the first compressed folder. Inside were dozens upon dozens of photographs. Most appeared to have been taken inside industrial food-processing facilities: conveyor belts, stainless-steel basins filled with raw meat, racks of cardboard boxes, plastic containers with labels, and endless rows of packaging machines. On several photos, employees in white coats and hairnets could be seen operating machinery. Yet there was one disturbing detail in every single image: the workers’ faces had been altered. Thick black bars were drawn over their eyes, concealing their identities entirely.

The second compressed folder was even more unsettling. It contained short video clips — most between 5 and 30 seconds long. They showed conveyor belts carrying chunks of meat, close-up shots of meat paste smeared along container walls, stains that did not belong in sterile environments, and in one clip, a mouse darting along the floor near mechanical equipment. The final video ended abruptly with a loud metallic sound and a jolt of the camera, as though the person filming had been interrupted or forced to stop recording.

By the time I finished watching, my hands were cold. Whatever this was, it wasn’t a joke, and it wasn’t some harmless accident. It felt like evidence — like documentation collected by someone who wanted to show something that wasn’t meant to leave the facility. Maybe it was whistleblower material. Maybe blackmail. Maybe an internal audit gone rogue. But there was one question that overshadowed all the others: why was it hidden inside a piece of salami?

I reopened the text file and read the single line again. “The distribution chain has been disrupted.” It sounded like a code phrase. Maybe the flash drive was never supposed to reach a consumer. Maybe it was designed to travel through the supply chain unnoticed until it reached a specific individual — someone who would know exactly what to do with it. Instead, it ended up with me because I happened to grab that particular package from the store shelf.

I decided to call the supermarket. The employee who answered was polite but confused and eventually told me to contact the manufacturer directly. I called the manufacturer’s customer service number. An automated system picked up, listing endless menu options — returns, complaints, product quality, and so on — but nothing resembling “I found a USB flash drive inside your meat product.” After several minutes, the system directed me to an online complaint form.