I washed my hands three times before I even touched the flash drive again. It sat on the table like evidence from a crime I didn’t remember witnessing. Part of me wanted to throw it away, pretend it never existed. The other part needed to know who had hidden it there, and why. Curiosity won.
The folder on the drive felt like a dare: “OPEN ME.” The single photo inside was worse than anything I’d imagined — a man, too close to the camera, laughing as if he knew I’d be sitting in front of my screen, staring back. There was nothing overtly violent in the image, yet it felt like a message meant only for me. I never found out who he was, or how the drive ended up in my food. But since that day, every sealed package feels like a question I’m afraid to answer.