But the anon is actually me from the future—paranoid, disheveled, and desperately trying to warn myself not to make the same catastrophic blockchain transaction that will doom us both. The signal is glitchy, the future-me is panicked, and the messages come through scrambled, half-readable, half-coded. I frantically try to verify the signature, but the suspense builds: Is this really me? Or is the hash slinging slasher just playing mind games with a spoofed pubkey? The line between real and digital horror begins to blur.

But just as I begin to decode the final warning, the power flickers, the cabin goes silent, and on the screen appears one last message: “The private keys were hidden in ____.”