Notes
You meet with a man at the end of a dark alley near a construction site, the place you had agreed upon via secure messaging, or at least, the closest to secure you can get these days. He hands you a padded envelope. You open it to find only a compact disc, labeled "the truth is out there." When you look up, the man is gone. You have been given access to sounds of things that scurry just out of sight, of red tape and smokescreens, of friendship and heartbreak, of theories waiting to be believed, so long as you want to.
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