DX01: SINGULARITY 02703

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A thick blanket of fog somehow remains confined within a small, worn-down tennis court, surrounded by massive, twisted metal bleachers that appear to be bolted to the ground. Umm, the air's pretty still here, with a damp, metallic smell. The fog swirls around the net posts, despite no visible wind source, and the net itself seems to be slowly unweaving its threads, as if being unraveled by an invisible hand. The early afternoon sun casts a diffuse, filtered glow through the fog, illuminating the rusting metal and old, peeling paint on the bleachers.