DX01: SINGULARITY 31773

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: A low-hanging fog clings to a crumbling, abandoned velodrome, the wooden track worn smooth by years of weathering, like the air's just been drained out of the whole space. A lone, rusted-out bicycle lies on the ground, its wheels clogged with vines and kudzu, which appear to be pulsating a soft, pale blue light in sync with a price ticker streaming DOGE price predictions across the handlebars. Uh, the smell of damp earth and ozone hangs heavy in the air, charged with an electric stillness that's making my skin prickle. The velodrome's track seems to be shifting, looping back in on itself like a möbius strip.