At home, I sliced a few pieces, ate them, put the rest in the fridge. Everything seemed completely ordinary.

This morning I pulled out the same sausage to make breakfast. I picked up the knife — then paused. The blade wasn’t gliding; it felt like it was hitting something solid. I assumed the sausage might have frozen a bit. But when I cut another slice, the knife stopped abruptly again. I looked closer — and my stomach dropped: something shiny was embedded deep inside.

At first, I thought it was a piece of metal. I dug it out carefully — and pulled free… a USB flash drive. A normal little thumb drive. I felt instant revulsion — I had already eaten this product. How could a flash drive end up inside a factory-sealed sausage?

Disgust gave way to curiosity. I turned on my computer, inserted the drive — and stared at the screen.

There were no normal files. Just a single folder with a chilling name:
“DO NOT OPEN.”

Some part of me almost laughed — as if the situation wasn’t already absurd enough. Meat product with digital media inside? And now psychological horror folder naming? But there was a small voice inside whispering that maybe opening it was a bad idea.

Except… of course I did.

Inside were dozens of video clips. Plain filenames like: “cam_A,” “floor3,” “test_B.” I clicked the first one.

The video showed a dim production room with a cold bluish cast. A factory floor. The camera panned shakily across a conveyor belt of raw sausage casings. Workers in white coats stood on both sides, processing the meat.

Then one worker suddenly leaned in, glanced nervously around, and slipped a tiny object into one of the casings — about the same size as the drive sitting on my desk. His movements were tense, guilty. He seemed terrified of being caught.

The video cut to black.

I opened the next one: a middle-aged man in the same uniform, filmed in close-up. He whispered into the camera urgently:
— If you’re watching this… it means they haven’t stopped. You have to speak up… before it goes further…

His expression was raw panic. Then he added a line that tightened ice around my spine:
— This product… it’s not what you think. It… changes people. Notice those who eat it often. The changes begin subtly…

The rest of his words dissolved in static.

I sat there for a moment, numb. I wanted to dismiss all of it — surely this is a bizarre prank, or some experimental documentary stunt. But I couldn’t ignore one fact:

the USB had been inside the food I ate.

That wiped out the “random internet weirdness” explanation. Whatever this was… it had crossed into my home.

The following clips showed warehouse shelves, containers, documents stamped and signed, masked personnel sealing boxes with dark urgency.

And then the same man again — looking straight into the lens with strained determination:
— If you see this… don’t buy anything from—

The audio cut right at the brand name. I tried reading his lips. I’m almost sure he said the manufacturer on my packaging.

I pushed the USB away as if it were contaminated.

Then I caught something faint in my mouth — a metallic aftertaste.
At first I thought it was just nerves. But now…

I rushed to the bathroom — rinsing, spitting, brushing, swallowing water — trying to erase it. But the unease felt deeper than taste — like something intangible had already taken root.

When I came back, I hesitated before opening the final video.

It was short. The same man again — exhausted, resigned. He said clearly:
— They’re monitoring the consumers. Through the product. Through us.

Then — silence.

I froze. My mind spun:

Do I go to the authorities? Do I alert the media? Do I just pretend I never saw any of this?

But then came the most unsettling thought:

Was I really the one who accidentally found that drive…
or was someone waiting for someone like me to find it?

I barely slept that night. I lay awake in the dark, listening to my own heartbeat, replaying every frame of those videos.

Because now, this isn’t some strange curiosity.
This is personal.

And the flash drive is still sitting here.

Somewhere out there — maybe right now — another file is being created. A warning. A confession.
Or perhaps…