DX01: SINGULARITY 08719

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The following account was recorded in the agent's log during your transmission: Dust motes dance in the late morning sunlight streaming through the grimy windows of an old, rural blacksmith shop. The air's thick with the smell of hot metal, coal, and sweat, and the sound of hammering echoes off the walls, but, like, there's no hammer moving, and the anvil's just sitting there, still getting dented. A small wooden bucket in the corner is somehow getting filled up with perfectly crafted metal nails, and outside, I can hear a bunch of birds chirping away in the nearby trees. The sun beats down on the roof, warming the shop.