The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Towering shelves stacked with old vinyl records stretch up to a vaulted ceiling in a sprawling, underground record store, the air's dry and musty with a faint scent of burnt coffee. Umm, fluorescent lights hum overhead, casting an even glow over the endless rows of albums, and a large, fluffy capybara is methodically alphabetizing the collection by artist, occasionally stopping to spin a record on a nearby turntable. Like, the soft crackle of static from the speakers mingles with the faint rumble of an underground waterfall somewhere in the distance. The capybara nods its head along to the beat.