The bathroom is dimly lit, graffiti-covered walls reeking of sweat and smoke. The Undercover Journalist sits on the closed toilet lid, pretending to scroll their phone, while the mic hidden in their hoodie picks up every sound.

Two voices outside the stall exchange hurried whispers. “You got the stash?” “Yeah, yeah, keep it down. Marco said to meet him after the drop.”

The journalist leans closer to the stall door, careful not to make a sound. Suddenly, one of the voices barks, “Hey, who’s in there?”

Thinking fast, the journalist responds, “Just me, man. Gave me a bad pill earlier—needed a breather.”

A pause. Then laughter. “Lightweight. Hurry up, people are waiting.”

The voices fade, but the journalist’s heart pounds. They adjust the mic and murmur, “Recording clear. Let’s see what else they spill.”