The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Sunlight's pouring through a grimy skylight, casting a pale glow on a massive, abandoned hydraulic press, its steel plates caked in rust and oil, slowly compressing what looks like a pile of crushed, water-damaged cryptocurrency rigs. Umm, the air's heavy with a scent of burned plastic and motor oil, and it's humid as hell in here. The press's hydraulic cylinder is somehow etching the phrase "Cyber-Sigilism Is The Future" into the concrete floor, in this perfect, graffiti-style font. Like, the whole thing's somehow charging the air with this intense, pulsating energy.