#Email Backup and Recovery

[infomen]

Secure Business Email Hosting Solutions by ZeaCloud®

ZeaCloud® offers robust, ad-free business email hosting solutions tailored for enterprises of all sizes. Their services ensure data security with advanced spam and phishing protection, antivirus measures, and real-time email monitoring. With features like customizable storage, seamless integration, and a user-friendly control panel, businesses can manage communications efficiently. Operating on a pay-as-you-go model, ZeaCloud® eliminates the need for licensing or additional hardware costs, providing scalable and secure email solutions to support uninterrupted business operations. for more details, Visit- Zeacloud Messaging Solutions Page

[puramudotcom]

Top 8 plugin Backup cho website WordPress uy tín nhất hiện nay

1. UpdraftPlus

2. BackWPup

3. Duplicator

4. All-in-One WP Migration and Backup

5. Jetpack VaultPress Backup (VaultPress)

6. BlogVault

7. Solid Backups (BackupBuddy)

8. WP Time Capsule

Thông tin chi tiết về các tính năng của các plugin trên trong bài viết dưới đây 👇👇👇

[smartcitysystem]

Microsoft Office 365 Migration, Email Setup & Support

Upgrade to Microsoft Office 365 effortlessly with our expert migration, email setup, and support. Benefit from comprehensive backup, security, and collaboration tools.

[fusionfactorcorp]

Fusion Factor Corporation provides reliable IT solutions and support for small and medium-sized businesses. They specialize in managed IT services, cybersecurity, cloud solutions, and IT consulting, helping companies work smarter and stay secure.

With a focus on customer care, Fusion Factor ensures your technology runs smoothly, so you can focus on growing your business. Their team offers 24/7 monitoring, proactive support, and tailored solutions to meet your unique needs. Fusion Factor makes IT simple, so you can achieve more.

[vastedge330]

When selecting an Office 365 backup solution, businesses should focus on automated backups, granular recovery options, security, and scalability. These features help protect critical data from accidental deletions and malicious attacks, ensuring that business operations remain uninterrupted in case of data loss.

[jcmarchi]

When Data Repair Tools Meet AI Technology - Technology Org

New Post has been published on https://thedigitalinsider.com/when-data-repair-tools-meet-ai-technology-technology-org/

When Data Repair Tools Meet AI Technology - Technology Org

Data repair tools make it possible to recover damaged videos, audio, images, and other data files. Traditional data recovery tools have been extremely helpful, but they lack consistency, satisfactory speeds, and accuracy. However, the introduction of AI technology in data repair has almost entirely addressed these shortcomings. 

Data repair tools that have integrated AI algorithms are now miles better, and you can bank on them to repair all levels of file damage with speed and efficacy. No wonder many data repair tools are now developing AI features to transform their data repair capabilities. In this article, we take a look at some of the best AI-powered data repair tools and see how AI technology has transformed them.  

Popular AI-powered Data Repair Tools 

It is no longer a secret that AI is transforming the data repair landscape. Several data repair tools have integrated AI technology to fine-tune their effectiveness. However, different AI-powered repair tools have different capabilities, so you should be careful when choosing a repair tool for your needs. Let’s compare some of the highly-rated AI-powered data repair tools. 

Wondershare Repairit

If there is a tool that knows how to integrate AI technology for data repair, then it is Wondershare Repairit. This powerful AI-powered repair tool makes data repair easier, more effective, and more fun. Whether you have damaged video, audio, image, email, or other data files, Wondershare Repairit fixes them with speed and unmatchable success rates. Wondershare Repairit offers three main features an AI video enhancer, an AI photo enhancer, and an AI generative fill.  

AI video enhancer is only available on the desktop version and allows you to enhance your videos, remove blur, and boost resolution. The AI photo enhancer lets you enhance images, optimize image portraits, and restore and colourize old photos. Additionally, it lets you upscale your photo to the desired resolution, including 100%, 200%, 400%, and 800%. 

The AI generative fill feature, on the other hand, is only available for the online version and allows you to fill your image with desired colours. All these capabilities are possible because of powerful AI algorithms like Adversarial Generative Networks and Intelligent Sample Polling.  

Why Wondershare Repairit

It supports all data repair scenarios including those with severely damaged files.

It allows users to repair all types of file formats including videos, images, audio, emails, and documents.

It is easy to use. Thanks to the user-friendly interface.

It offers a functional trial version and an affordable premium version.

It enhances the quality of the output file.

It has incredible success rates. 

With this tool, you can repair your data files without file size or number limits. 

How to Use Wondershare Repairit

Wondershare Repairit provides both online and desktop options, and the choice is yours. Choose a suitable plan and get started as follows.

Step 1. Using a suitable browser, navigate to the Wondershare Repairit online version. Choose the desired photo repair option and click “Start Now.”. 

Step 2. On the next screen, click the “Upload Image” button, and you will be taken to another screen with several AI data repair options. Click the “Add Photo” button and upload the image you want to repair on your device. 

Step 3. Once uploaded, choose the desired AI image enhancement options on the right. You can select old photo restoration, photo colourization, portrait enhancement, and AI upscaling. Once satisfied, click the “Start” button to trigger the repair process. 

Step 4. When the process is completed, click the “Download” button to fetch it to your device. 

CommVault

Although primarily a data management solution, CommVault is one of the best AI-powered data repair tools. This tool uses AI algorithms to protect critical data and recover them when needed. It integrates backup, recovery, and archiving functions on one platform to help streamline data management.

With its automation-powered features, you can use it to manage complex data tasks and hence reduce your IT workload.  Furthermore, this tool is scalable and can accommodate evolving data repair requirements. While this is a useful data repair platform, many users complain that it is challenging to navigate its features. 

EaseUS Fixo is a popular, useful data repair tool that is powered by AI. This tool can repair corrupted videos, photos, and files that cannot be opened. It is known to solve various levels of data file damage. 

With this tool, you can repair a variety of file formats, including MOV, MP4, 3GP, and GIF, from various storage devices like SD cards, computer hard drives, memory sticks, and USB flash drives, among others. EaseUS Fixo provides a free trial version but is extremely limited. Many users complain that its pricing plans are too expensive compared to top data repair tools like Wondershare Repairit. 

4DDig File Repair

4DDig File Repair is another powerful tool to repair data files with ease. This AI-powered program can easily repair, enhance, and colour your videos and photos. It can repair videos that are unplayable, corrupted, distorted, and jerky.  You can also restore and colourize your black-and-white videos using AI technology on Windows.

The good thing about this program is that it supports several storage media, including SD cards, computer hard drives, and USB flash drives. You can also do batch repairs to save both time and energy. On the downside, this tool is pricey. While it gives you the free trial version, most of its features are limited, and you can hardly do a repair that meets your needs. Nevertheless, it boosts relatively high success rates. 

Conclusion

AI-powered tools have tremendously transformed how we repair damaged videos, audio, images, and other data files. However, not all AI-powered data repair tools fit your needs. Others are too expensive and lack certain useful capabilities, while others provide these features within your budget. Therefore, you must take time and choose a tool that meets your needs without draining your financial resources. 

From this discussion, Wondershare Repairit is a standout. Its collection of amazing features, ease of use, affordability, and compatibility with devices make it the most mature and competitive AI-powered data repair tool. Try Wondershare Repairit today and experience what AI technology does to data repair tools. 

[joetastic2739]

Someone accessed my Gmail 2 days ago, compromising my linked accounts like Twitter and YouTube. Here's how it happened, why I fell for it, and what you can learn to avoid making the same mistake:

The scam I fell victim to was a cookie hijack. The hacker used malicious software to steal my browser cookies (stuff like autofill, auto sign in, etc), allowing them to sign in to my Gmail and other accounts, completely bypassing my 2FA and other security protocols.

A few days ago, I received a DM from @Rachael_Borrows, who claimed to be a manager at @Duolingo. The account seemed legitimate. It was verified, created in 2019, and had over 1k followers, consistent with other managers I’d seen at the time n I even did a Google search of this person and didnt find anything suspicious.

She claimed that @Duolingo wanted me to create a promo video, which got me excited and managed to get my guard down. After discussing I was asked to sign a contract and at app(.)fastsigndocu(.)com. If you see this link, ITS A SCAM! Do NOT download ANY files from this site.

Unfortunately, I downloaded a file from the website, and it downloaded without triggering any firewall or antivirus warnings. Thinking it was just a PDF, I opened it. The moment I did, my console and Google Chrome flashed. That’s when I knew I was in trouble. I immediately did an antivirus scan and these were some of the programs it found that were added to my PC without me knowing:

The thing about cookie hijacking is that it completely bypasses 2FA which should have been my strongest line of defense. I was immediately signed out of all my accounts and within a minute, they changed everything: passwords, 2FA, phone, recovery emails, backup codes, etc.

I tried all methods but hit dead ends trying to recover them. Thankfully, my Discord wasn’t connected, so I alerted everyone I knew there. I also had an alternate account, @JLCmapping, managed by a friend, which I used to immediately inform @/TeamYouTube about the situation

Meanwhile, the hackers turned my YouTube channel into a crypto channel and used my Twitter account to spam hundreds of messages, trying to use my image and reputation to scam more victims

Thankfully, YouTube responded quickly and terminated the channel. Within 48 hours, they locked the hacker out of my Gmail and restored my access. They also helped me recover my channel, which has been renamed to JoetasticOfficial since Joetastic_ was no longer available.

Since then, I’ve taken several steps to secure my accounts and prevent this from happening again. This has been a wake-up call to me, and now I am more cautious around people online. I hope sharing it helps others avoid falling victim to similar attacks. (End)

(side note) Around this time, people also started to impersonate me on TikTok and YouTube. With my accounts terminated, anyone searching for "Joetastic" would only find the imposter's profiles. I’m unsure whether they are connected or if it’s just an unfortunate coincidence, but it made the situation even more stressful.

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter Eight

A/N: ...a day late, and we did not progress to the point I wanted to post up to tonight, but I had to split this chapter because this first half is TWENTY-TWO F-ING pages (!!!!!!). Which means I need you to hang on just a wiiiiitle bit longer <3

Series Masterlist

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Zandvoort smells like salt and rubber.

It’s not as sharp as Spa, not as mythic. There’s no fog curling through the trees or looming, mist-draped corners that make you feel like you’re racing inside someone’s memory. But there’s a charge here, still- electric, coastal, heavy with the kind of history that hums through your bones when you stand trackside long enough. You’d almost call it pleasant. Almost.

More importantly: it’s not the Verstappen estate.

The sea air hits you the moment you step out of the car, and you inhale like it might fix something. It doesn’t. But it helps. A little. Your hands still twitch with leftover tension, your back still feels too straight from three weeks of trying not to exist too loudly. But for the first time in days, you’re alone. Not watched, not dissected, not pushed into anyone’s orbit.

Just... here. At the track.

You showed up early. Again.

They didn’t ask you to. Nobody sent a schedule, nobody told you when to arrive. But your paycheck hit your account on Friday, and you took that as proof of life. It could still mean anything- admin lag, accounting oversight, hush money to keep you quiet while they finalize your release.

But if they were done with you, really done, someone would have said something. Right?

Still, the math doesn’t add up.

Yuki’s recovery has been a black hole. No updates. No timelines. No whispers in the paddock or quiet press leaks about his condition, but an appendectomy is typically a small delay, not a season ender. Not a single word about whether there will be a seat this weekend- or if that seat will be yours. 

What you do have, however, is a meeting on the books. Suspiciously nondescript. Midday tomorrow. Just one vague, intentionally non-committal calendar hold marked Meeting - Internal at the Red Bull Energy Station. No context. Just enough to ruin your week. No subject line, no agenda. Just a time and a location buried in a forwarded email chain. Which… never bodes well.

You’ve seen this kind of thing before. From the Indy side. The language of corporate dismissal is universal- vague meetings, no attached notes, a suspicious uptick in HR visibility. No one says the word termination out loud, but everyone walks in knowing it’s on the table.

So yeah. You're nervous.

No. You’re scared.

Not wide-eyed, frantic fear- but the other kind. The deep, gnawing kind that sits low in your gut and mutters, this might be it. This might be the end. After everything. After Spa. After the praise and the politics and the hollow smile Jos called approval. After the goddamn Verstappen dinner from hell.

It could all still mean nothing.

But this time- this time- it wouldn’t be the same kind of death.

Because unlike before, when you clawed your way into Spa with nothing but desperation and a too-tight fire suit, you have options now. Not many. Not flashy ones. But there are teams- teams who saw what you did at Spa, who watched you drag that car past the line with P7 on your back and fire in your fucking eyes. Someone will take you. Somewhere, on some circuit. You’ll have a job.

Logically, you’ll be fine.

Logically, your life isn’t over if this doesn’t work out. Not the way it could have been last month.

But logic has never been the point.

Because no matter how many backup plans you can scrape together, how many polite emails from lesser teams float into your inbox, you know none of them can make you feel what that car made you feel. None of them replace the way it settled around your body like a second skin. The way the world melted away when you were flat through Eau Rouge, fingers light, everything inside you aligned.

Nothing else even comes close.

You need this. Not because it’s your only option- but because it’s the only thing that feels like you.

You will do whatever it takes to be in an F1 car again. You will smile when they tell you to smile. You will jump through flaming hoops if it means getting your hands on the wheel. You will make yourself indispensable, undeniable, un-ignorable. Because you've tasted heaven now, and they are going to have to rip it out of your cold, dead hands to send you back.

So you show up early.

You unpack your laptop. Your notebook. Your entire obsessive catalog of driver data and strategy breakdowns and pit delta margins. You start building your space into a command post before they can tell you not to.

You haven’t been told if you’re driving.

But you’ve been paid.

And until someone has the spine to sit you down and tell you otherwise, you’re going to act like you belong. So for a day and a half, you do everything you think you’re supposed to. Everything you know you’re supposed to. Because that’s how you operate.

Always work twice as hard as they expect you to. Always care. Always give a shit.

Some of it is discipline. Routine. Muscle memory that runs deeper than blood. But a lot of it- if you’re being honest- is just you. It’s how your brain is wired. You don’t know how to do this halfway. You never have.

So you wake up early. Schlep your little rental car back and forth between the budget hotel you booked yourself and the paddock that’s still half-empty, still finding its shape. You’ve got the same room as a dozen mechanics across the street- basic, clean, the smell of industrial-strength cleaner clinging to the sheets. It’s perfect. It’s real.

You park in the gravel lot and walk in by yourself, pass after pass, head down but alert, absorbing everything. The smell of fresh asphalt and steel, the faint tang of tire rubber off-gassing in the sun. You talk to the crew laying out the scaffolding for the Red Bull Energy Station, watch as they transform a convoy of trucks into a two-story temple of branded opulence. It’s absurd, really- how fast it all comes together. Steel and aluminum and cables everywhere, like some corporate miracle happening in real time.

You stand nearby with your coffee and make conversation. Ask questions. Watch.

They seem surprised by you- pleasantly, but still. Drivers don’t usually talk to them. Not like this. Not unless there’s a camera around. But you’re not most drivers.

You grew up middle class, surrounded by people who worked with their hands. Farmhands, ranchers, truckers, the kind of men who fixed things with duct tape and brute force and always had dirt under their nails. These guys? These guys feel like home. Like your uncles, your dad, your neighbors back in the northwest. You know how to talk to them. You know when to chirp and when to listen. You know that compliments go further than questions, and that remembering someone’s name always earns respect.

You’re good in boardrooms. Of course you are. You’ve trained for that just as hard. But that world is performance. Staged smiles and waiting your turn and hoping someone in a tailored suit decides you’re useful enough to keep around. It’s a talent you didn’t come by easy. It’s never honest.

But this? This is easy.

You’re crouched near the back of the garage, balancing a half-eaten slice of lukewarm pizza on your knee and trying not to get grease on your notebook. It’s the cheap kind- basic crust, sticky cheese, a few lonely slices of pepperoni- but it’s free, and you’re not about to turn your nose up at it. Especially not when you’ve been living on protein bars and meal-prepped chicken since Spa.

The crew is mid-garage-setup, all hands on deck, pushing flight cases and assembling equipment like it’s second nature. You’ve been watching for the better part of an hour now- content to loiter, taking bites between scribbling half-legible notes, trying not to look like you’re hovering. You should probably be somewhere else, doing something more official. But this feels… better. Realer. Like something you recognize.

You’re mid-bite, trying to fold the tip of the slice to keep it from flopping, when a voice cuts in behind you.

“Careful. Too much longer and someone’s gonna assume you belong to us.”

You glance up, squinting into the light. He’s standing just behind a stack of flight cases, arms crossed, wearing the telltale team polo and a high-vis vest slung over top. Mid-thirties, maybe. Tall-ish. Lean. Dark hair that looks like it might be perpetually one day overdue for a trim. Handsome in that easy, casual way. Not your type- not that you have the luxury of thinking about that right now- but still. Not hard to look at.

He’s also watching you with amused curiosity, like he’s trying to figure out what you are. Driver? Nuisance? Stray animal?

You chew quickly and swallow. “Was hoping no one would notice.”

He gestures at the crust in your hand. “Hard to stay under the radar when you’re making off with the crew’s lunch.”

You grin, not bothering to be defensive. “Hey, you leave a box open in a pit garage, you’re asking for trouble. Everybody knows- food on a toolbox is off limits but the workbench is fair game- can’t imagine garage rules change too much from circuit to circuit.”

That gets a laugh- low and genuine. “Gavin Marks,” he says, offering a hand. “Garage coordinator, junior engineer when all this,” he gestures around him, “is finally in one piece.”

You shift the pizza to your left hand and shake, open your mouth to introduce yourself, but never quite get that far.

“Oh,” he says, cutting you off, like that explains something. “I know.” He steps around a stack of wheel covers and leans a hip against a crate, folding his arms. He doesn’t feel like he’s here to check a box- doesn’t feel like he’s going to ask for a selfie or talk about Spa like he watched it on Sky and now he knows your entire life. He’s just… curious.

“I’ve gotta ask,” Gavin says, nodding toward your notepad and your semi-claimed corner of the garage. “How’d you end up here?”

You push yourself up with one hand, brushing the back of your jeans off with the other. “Free pizza,” you say, still chewing, “I’m just here hoping no one remembers they forgot to fire me.”

He snorts. “Right. You’ve caused a bit of a stir, you know.”

You nod, feigning solemnity. “I’m very disruptive.”

Gavin studies you for a second, something a little sharper behind his easy demeanor. “You’re not…typical.”

You shrug again, casual. “I don’t have a pedigree. Or the budget for bespoke luggage. Or the budget for…anything, really. So yeah. I hang out with the guys who know how to operate a pallet jack.”

He raises a brow. “You're saying that like it’s a bad thing.”

“It’s not,” you say.

There’s a pause, and then he asks it again. Not the way the press asks it. Not the rehearsed, sanitized version. “How’d you really get here?”

You glance at him, but the tone isn’t suspicious. Just curious. Like maybe he actually wants to understand it. So you wipe your fingers on a napkin and toss the crust in a nearby bin. “Your guess is as good as mine. I wasn’t exactly asking questions when they called. Said yes to a Friday seat when I probably shouldn’t have. And then Spa happened, and I think I’m an actual problem now.”

He whistles low, like he already knows the story but it’s better hearing it from you. “No backing?” he asks.

“Only the emotional kind,” you say. “And even that sometimes costs me postage.” He laughs again- low and a little surprised, like he hadn’t expected you to say something that honest. Or maybe like he hadn’t expected to like you this fast.

You shift your weight, suddenly aware that if you linger too long, you might start feeling comfortable. And that’s dangerous. Comfortable means forgetting what this place is- how fast it can spit you out if you let your guard down for even a second. Comfortable means forgetting about the guillotine hung over the neck of your career tomorrow at eleven A.M. sharp.

You glance back toward the paddock. “I should go check if the sim rig’s up yet.”

Gavin tilts his head. “Already?”

You shrug, slinging your bag over one shoulder. “I don’t get to coast off one good race. And besides- if I don’t get my hands on the steering wheel soon, I’m gonna start bothering people.”

“You’re already bothering people,” he says, easy grin still in place.

“Exactly,” you shoot back, already walking.

Behind you, he chuckles again, but doesn’t follow.

The meeting is held in a glass-walled conference room overlooking the paddock. It’s too clean. Too bright. Too cold. Not literally- climate controlled to a corporate 22°C- but emotionally, unmistakably cold.

You’re early. Of course you are. Hair neat. Notes prepped. Quarter-zip pulled to your collarbone, the corners of your collar tipped out just so. You’ve done everything right. Again.

You showed up early. You drove the hell out of that car. You smiled and nodded and never once complained- not about the uncertainty, not about the silence, not about the way they’ve kept you suspended in this strange little purgatory.

Franz isn’t here.

That’s the first thing you notice, and it doesn’t sit right. You glance around the room, trying not to let your confusion show- trying to match the energy in the space even as your stomach twists. There are fewer people than you expected. No Mattia. No AlphaTauri race engineers. No team principal. No sign of the people who held your hand through Spa, who watched the lap times drop, who rallied around your P7 like it meant something.

Instead, it’s Christian Horner, Helmut Marko, and two of the same legal guys who helped rush-sign your temporary contract in Belgium. That’s it. Your brain starts spinning through possibilities like a fan set to high.

Maybe Franz is busy. Maybe this is just a formality. But no, Franz would never miss a meeting about his own driver’s future. Not unless…

Unless this isn’t about AlphaTauri at all.  Unless Red Bull is making you an offer directly. Unless- No. No, that’s delusional.

Your pulse ticks faster in your throat as you try to make sense of the room. You glance toward Helmut, trying to read him the way you would an engineer mid-debrief- searching for the tiniest tells. Something in the eyes, the corners of the mouth, the tightness of the jaw.

But Helmut Marko is unreadable.

The man has the permanent expression of someone who’s already disappointed in you. Sharp mouth. Set jaw. One blind eye that never moves, and another that’s somehow more unnerving because it does. You try to get a read anyway- because your future might depend on it, and it’s not like anyone’s going to offer you a copy of the agenda.

You fail.

If he were bluffing, you wouldn’t know it. If he were ecstatic, you wouldn’t know that either. He could be about to offer you a five-year seat or a restraining order, and you wouldn’t be able to tell the difference. Christian, for his part, has the soft smirk of a man who enjoys playing the long game. It makes you uneasy.

Helmut’s the one who speaks. “Yuki’s been cleared,” he says, voice flat. “He’ll be driving this weekend.” That part? You were ready for that. You nod once, polite, expression neutral. You don’t ask for more explanation. You don’t flinch. That’s his seat. Fair is fair.

But then Christian leans forward, fingertips steepled on the table like he’s about to give you a gift. “We’ve all been very impressed,” he starts.

The words slide across the table like an olive branch wrapped in silk. It’s smooth, deliberate, carefully placed- not warm, exactly, but not cold either. There’s a certain polish to it, the kind that comes from a man who’s had to deliver both triumphs and exits with the same smile. And still, something in you perks up. Just a little. The breath you hadn’t realized you were holding slips out quietly through your nose.

“Your feedback was strong. The engineers had nothing but good things to say. We think you could be a valuable long-term asset to the organization.” That word- valuable- sticks for a second. Not impressive, not exceptional, but valuable. Functional. Useful. And yet, it's better than nothing. Better than what you’ve been handed since Spa. The phrase long-term asset lights up the corners of your mind before you can stop it, whispering promises it has no intention of keeping.

You sit a little straighter, shoulders pulled back against the sudden flicker of hope. It's not a seat, but it sounds like movement. Like traction. Like someone in this room might actually see you as more than a one-off novelty or a PR stunt that over-delivered.

You wait, eyes on Christian, searching for more. A timeline. A role. A plan. A future.

But it doesn’t come. Just could be. Not are. Not will be. Just… could. The flicker begins to dim. And then Helmut speaks again, slicing the moment clean in two. “Christian’s offered you a role with Red Bull Racing as a development driver,” he says, tone already sliding into neutral. “Factory-based. Full-time simulator work. Possibly component testing, if the opportunity arises.”

It hits like static- harmless at first, just background noise, until you try to move through it. The language is too clean, too rehearsed. You blink once, trying to process the shape of what was just said, and then again, like maybe the repetition will help the math make sense.

Factory-based. Full-time sim work. Possibly testing.

That’s... it?

No reserve contract. No mention of next year. No guarantee of even touching a real car again. No practices. No pathway. No scaffolding. No clear language about what you’re being groomed for- or even if you’re being groomed for anything at all.

Just labor. In silence. Behind the curtain.

The kind of job you give someone you want to keep quiet. The kind of title that sounds impressive on paper, just long enough to bury ambition under access badges and tire data. A role where you’ll spend more time tuning a sim data than actually using it, where your name won’t appear on any race weekend briefings unless you’re listed as a backup to a backup.

It’s not a ladder. It’s a leash.

And suddenly, everything in your chest feels too tight. Your heart drops, but not with drama- there’s no space for that. It just sinks quietly, the way a heavy object does when there’s no one watching.

You’ve been waiting for your future to begin. Waiting for someone in this room to look you in the eye and tell you that you belong here, that Spa meant something. That it wasn’t a fluke or a marketing opportunity or a miracle that won’t repeat itself. You wanted a map. You wanted a plan. You wanted a goddamn chance.

Instead, you got this.

And whether they know it or not- whether they meant to or not- they’ve just handed you something much worse than rejection. They’ve handed you a cage, wrapped in thank-you language, lined with velvet, and left the door wide open like you’re supposed to be grateful it exists at all.

You want to scream. You want to laugh. You want to pick up the table and throw it.

After everything? After Spa? After what you pulled off in that car, with no prep, no notice, no support- and they’re still fucking measuring you?

You were supposed to be disposable. You proved you weren’t. And they still won’t invest.

You feel your pulse pounding behind your eyes as your voice comes out quieter than you expect. “What would that look like… in terms of transitioning to a race seat?” It’s such a reasonable question, but it feels pathetic coming out of your mouth.

But the second it leaves your mouth, it feels small. Like you’ve just revealed too much- shown your hand in a room full of men who aren’t used to being asked for timelines by someone like you.

Helmut waves a hand, like he’s brushing dust off his sleeve. “We’ll see how you perform. There are always opportunities. Things change.” That’s not a path. That’s a placeholder. You're not being groomed. You’re being stored.

He says it like it’s magnanimous. Like the shifting sands of F1 are a gift, not a threat. But it doesn’t feel like a roadmap. It feels like a muzzle.

Held close enough that someone else can’t grab you, but far enough they don’t have to bother nurturing you. You nod, slowly, like the motion will hide how sick you suddenly feel. You don’t trust yourself to speak. Not properly. Not yet. And then, because you have to know, because you can’t let them bury you quietly and call it favor- 

You nod. Or maybe your head just tilts slightly. It’s hard to tell if the motion was voluntary. There’s a buzzing in your ears now- low and deep, like a pressure shift you can’t equalize. Your hands are cold. Your chest is too tight. You should be asking questions. The smart ones. The cover-your-ass ones. The ones your mom would ask. 

But you can’t think.

You can’t even remember what you wanted out of this meeting anymore. You had notes. You had a plan. You were supposed to walk out of here with direction, with answers. Not this... fog.

You feel yourself drifting. Slipping into silence.

And then- 

Wait.

It slams into you. The one thing you have to know. The thing they’re counting on you being too overwhelmed to remember to ask. Your voice cuts in- sharp, but late. “And- legally- ”

You have to stop. Breathe. Swallow. Try again. You lift your eyes, making them look at you. “Am I… legally allowed to explore other driving opportunities? In or out of F1?”

The pause is immediate. Heavy. Sharp.

Helmut doesn’t answer. His eyes narrow- just slightly- but you catch it. The tightening of his jaw. The minute flare of irritation, like your question personally offends him. Like you’re meant to be grateful, not strategic.

Christian’s glance to legal is quick, but pointed. A silent directive. Answer, but don’t start a fire. The legal advisor doesn’t miss a beat. “Yes,” she says smoothly, “as long as your obligations to the team are met, you’re permitted to accept other driving offers.”

It’s clean. Precise. A line they can't cross. One measly footnote line of anti-compete that protects Helmut Marko from owning you completely, even if only just. He hates that you asked. It’s written all over the way his jaw flexes. His fingers tap once against the table before stilling completely. He doesn’t speak, but his silence says everything: That’s not how this is supposed to work.

Christian, sensing the tension, steps in with the soft touch. A politician in a fireproof suit. He leans back just slightly, mouth curving like he’s trying to defuse a bomb with charm. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves,” he says, lightly. “We like to keep it in the family when we can.” It’s framed like a joke. It isn’t one.

You just nod once, sharp enough to leave a paper cut. They don’t want you to go looking. You know that now. They won’t say it. But they’ve said enough.

You smile. Barely. Just enough to show teeth. Let them see whatever they want in it. Compliance. Confidence. Threat. You don’t have the fucks to give to make the micro-adjustments, to project whatever emotion you think they want to see on your face. Not right now. 

“Understood.” You nod once, just enough to acknowledge it, just enough to say, I heard you. Not I agree. You start to rise. You’re already shifting your bag onto your shoulder when Christian speaks again, like he’s just remembered something rather important.

“Oh- ” You stop. Turn back toward the table. “We’d like you to keep this quiet. For the weekend.” He says it with that same smile, but there’s a new edge now- something just slightly firmer. A reminder. A request that’s not really a request.

“There’s a lot of press attention around you. We think it would be best- for everyone- if you maintained a low profile about the development role until you’re back in Milton Keynes.”

Helmut finally glances up then, as if to reinforce the point. His eyes don’t blink.

Christian folds his hands. “You’ll still be here anyway, so if you’re comfortable stepping into some media duties- like a reserve might- we’d appreciate it.” It’s not framed as pressure. But you feel it. Every unspoken inch of it.

Of course they want to trot you out in front of the cameras. You’re hot right now. Marketable. A podium without a contract. It looks bold. It looks deliberate. As long as no one knows you’re being benched, you’re a win for their narrative. You force a polite nod. “Of course.”

And just like that, you’re not a rising star.

You’re just another tool in the Red Bull factory.

You make it as far as the rear door before it hits you.

The rage. The humiliation. 

The grief.

You grip the edge of the railing along the window, fingertips white with pressure, trying to keep your knees from buckling.This wasn’t supposed to happen.

You knew it could. You knew. You braced yourself for it, ran the scenarios in your head, tried to be logical. Prepared. Professional. But that doesn’t make it any easier to swallow the truth laid out in front of you like a cheap consolation prize.

They never meant to give you anything real.

They saw what you did. They know what you did. You dragged that car into P7 with no prep, no sim time, no setup, no support- not even a proper damn seat fitting. You gave them everything, and what you earned in return was a desk in a windowless room in Milton Keynes and a headset with your name taped to the side.

A development role.

A sim seat.

A job that keeps you near enough to pat yourself on the back but just far enough that you’re never really in the room when it matters. Close. Controlled. Useful.

Forgettable.

You press your hands to the cool railing outside the media center, suck in a slow breath and try not to shake. The air’s thick with the smell of tire rubber and concrete dust, but it barely registers. Your chest feels hollow. Your skin’s buzzing.

Your eyes stay locked on the horizon, where the track dips just out of view behind temporary fencing and hospitality trucks. You can’t see the finish line. You’re not sure you ever will.

Yuki might already be on site. Already back in the car. Already replacing you. You wonder if he even gives a shit that you were in the seat at all. If he looked at the telemetry. If he watched the onboard.

But what you’re really wondering- what you can’t stop thinking- is how you were stupid enough to believe it would be different this time.

Why does this feel like Dale Coyne all over again?

Why does this feel like every goddamn time you’ve come through for people who never had any intention of building a future with you?

You think of all those nights on the Indy circuit, putting that car together with duct tape and spite. The way you’d show up early, stay late, write your own debriefs when no one asked, burn your fingers helping the crew tape heat shielding because you were too afraid of being seen as dead weight.

You gave that team more than you had. You held the line with no support, no funding, no name, no family backing. And when it came time to plan next season?

You were always the first one up for the cutting discussion.

Too young. Too poor. Too different. Too… female.

And now you’re here. Formula 1. The supposed dream.

And it’s the same fucking story.

Different logos. Same men. Same stitched polos and cold eyes and fake encouragements. They hand you a title that doesn’t mean anything- Development Driver- like it’s a blessing instead of exactly enough rope to tie a noose.

You clench your jaw hard enough it hurts. Because the worst part isn’t the disappointment.

It’s the part of you that still aches to say thank you.

That still wants to be grateful for a job that’s not a demotion- not technically- that still exists in the world of racing. That will still keep you inside the room. That could, one day, maybe, possibly lead somewhere.

And you hate that part of yourself. You want to rip it out of your chest and hurl it against the concrete.

You want to scream. You want to spit. You want to walk into that boardroom and light the damn NDA on fire. Because this isn’t just about a job. It’s not even about a race seat.

It’s about the lie. 

The lie you let yourself believe- again. That maybe, this time, they’d see you for what you are. That maybe, this paddock would be different. It’s not.

Your throat tightens so fast it’s almost a gag. You blink hard, force the tears back. You will not cry here. Not in this hallway. Not where someone could see. But the spiral is already happening. Sliding fast. Like your brain is eating itself from the inside.

What else were you supposed to do?

What more could you have possibly done?

You delivered. You fucking delivered.

And they’re still testing you. Measuring you. Seeing how you “perform” before deciding if you’re worth so much as a backup seat. Are you fucking kidding? You’d laugh if it didn’t hurt so much. You press a hand to your chest like that might anchor you, might hold something in place. It doesn’t.

You feel like you’re being erased in real time. Like if you blink too long, you’ll disappear completely. Folded back into the shadows of the garage. Another almost. Another girl with talent and no funding. Another body they kept on the shelf because they could.

And you hate that it’s working. You hate that you’re standing here, shaking, grateful they didn’t fire you outright. Grateful they still want you at all.

You hate that you said yes. You hate that you meant it.

And still- still- there’s a voice in your head whispering, it’s not over. That if you can just hold on, if you can just survive the factory job, the endless sim hours, the silence, the waiting, the never-quite-enough of it all… maybe, eventually, someone will put you in a car again.

That hope? That’s what hurts the most.

Because no matter how many times they shut the door- you keep walking back.

Because here’s the ugliest truth of all:

You’re going to go to that factory. You’re going to sit in that simulator until your back locks up and your fingers go numb. You’re going to smile for PR shoots and answer media questions and keep trying, keep hoping, keep fucking believing that if you just push hard enough, sacrifice enough, suffer enough, they’ll finally decide you’re worth it.

You’re going to work yourself raw for people who haven’t earned it.

You’re going to fight and bend and beg- again.

You’re going to get on your knees for this sport like it’s a god.

Like it deserves your worship.

Like they deserve your worship.

And you hate that.

You hate how deep it runs. How much it owns you. You hate that you still want it.

Because this isn’t just ambition. It’s not just drive or hunger or “love of the game.”

You’ll go home- wherever that is now- pull your hair into a bun, put on the team polo like it means something, and log twelve-hour sim days for people who do not give a shit if you ever race again. You’ll show up early. Stay late. Run tests until your vision blurs. You’ll fine-tune tire models and engine mappings and pretend like you’re happy to be contributing “behind the scenes.”

You’ll do it all. Because you have to. Because you’re already hooked. You love racing like an addict loves heroin. Like it burns going in, like it eats you from the inside out, but the high is the only thing that ever made you feel real. It’s pathetic.

And it’s the truest thing about you.

You think about the first time you sat in a kart. The first time you beat the boys. The first time you scared yourself and went back for more.

You’ve built your entire life around this, and now you’re staring down the barrel of obscurity and telling yourself it’s fine. That there’s still a way in. That if you just endure, just make yourself useful enough, quiet enough, harmless enough, they’ll change their minds.

They won’t.

They never do.

And still, you’ll work. You’ll scrape your knees bloody on the concrete of their expectations. You’ll crawl into their systems and make yourself small and efficient and fucking indispensable- and it still won’t be enough.

You want to scream.

You want to find Franz and Helmut and shake them and make them explain why Spa wasn’t enough. Why P7 in that car wasn’t enough. Why you are still a question mark to them, still a possibility, still a test case.

You want them to tell you what you did wrong so you can fix it- because that’s what you always do. You adjust. You improve. You perform.

And they just keep moving the bar.

You hate that you’re not done trying to hit it.

You don’t know who you are without it. You don’t know what you are if you're not chasing tenths and downforce and perfection in the shape of apexes. You don’t know how to walk away, even when everything inside you is screaming to run.

It’s like loving a toxic ex. One you know isn’t good for you. One who ghosts you for weeks, then texts you “u up?” at midnight and you’re already in the car before your brain catches up. You hate yourself the whole drive over. But you go.

Every. Time.

And that’s what racing is.

That’s what this is.

You’ve tasted the thing that makes you feel whole- and now you’d let it chew you up and spit you out just to feel that way again. That’s the part you hate the most. Not them. Not even the deal.

You.

Because you know better.

And you’re still going to do it anyway.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Thursday arrives.

You barely slept. Woke up wired and raw, your body vibrating with everything you didn’t say in that glass box of a meeting. Your face hurts from how much you pretended to smile yesterday. Your stomach is still twisted up from swallowing disappointment and pretending it tasted like gratitude.

But you show up.

Because that’s what you do.

You tug on your team polo, comb your hair back into something tidy, and walk into the paddock like you didn’t spend half the night journaling just to stop yourself from screaming into a pillow.

Media day is already in full swing- cameras flashing, boom mics swinging, PR reps jogging between hospitality units like the place is on fire. A hundred voices blur into one: clipped apologies, requests for soundbites, reminders to smile. It’s the usual chaos. You’ve lived it before.

A clipboard is shoved into your hands without warning. “Here’s your driver schedule,” someone says- cheerfully, like the word isn’t acidic on their tongue. You look down. The word driver is printed across the top of the page in bold, capital letters. Right there. Centered. Like a joke written just for you.

It makes your skin crawl.

Driver.

Like you still are one.

Like they didn’t sit you down two days ago and sentence you to a windowless sim rig at Milton fucking Keynes. Like they didn’t hand you your ambition, gutted and dressed and hung up like a market pig.

It feels like mockery. Like performance art. Because you’re not driving. You’re not even pretending to get in the car this weekend. There’s no prep, no debriefs, no new parts with your name on them.

But here you are. Listed like the others. Slotted in for interviews, panels, branded content. The schedule wants you to sit beside real drivers and smile like you still belong.

You’re not being honored. You’re being used.

They want your story, not your skill. They want your face. Your quotes. Your traction on social media. They want you to show up, sit in front of a camera, and remind the world that AlphaTauri is innovative, inclusive, flexible.

Meanwhile, you’re sitting on a secret that tastes like ash- your relegation, your exile, your tightly worded exile to a simulator you didn’t ask for.

You shift the clipboard under your arm and nod like it’s all fine, like this is normal. Like your stomach hasn’t been in knots since they told you you'd be taking up residence in almost. Almost a driver. Almost a contender. Almost good enough. You follow the PR rep toward the first media pen.

And all the while, the word driver presses against your ribs like a bruise.

You’re mentally steeling yourself for another long morning of talking around the truth when someone taps you on the elbow. You turn- and there he is. Your press-pen buddy for the day.

Yuki Tsunoda.

All 5’2” of him. The same height as you, which is already disorienting. Everyone else in this paddock is built like they were engineered in a wind tunnel. Yuki looks like he wandered out of a frat house and remembered last minute he was an F1 driver.

His AlphaTauri polo is rumpled, like he either doesn’t know how to use an iron or just doesn’t care. There’s a Red Bull in his hand, also somehow crinkled, as if the can itself has resigned to being a part of the theme. His hair’s a mess. He looks like he just rolled out of a nap and into the paddock. He might have.

You kind of love it.

He squints at you, like he’s trying to place you. “You’re the girl who stole my car.”

You blink, caught off guard. “I- what?”

He grins. “My seat,” he clarifies, mouth full of- where the fuck did he pull that out of- some sort of pastry you’re certain he hadn’t had in his hands when he approached. “Fucking appendix. Spa. You steal it. Grand theft open-wheeler.”

You blink again. Yuki shoves the rest of his pastry in his mouth.

You stare at him for a second before realizing he’s joking. Badly. But still. Then- God help you- you laugh- really laugh- for the first time in what feels like days. Yuki’s grin widens instantly, pleased as hell with himself. “Ahh, good. You laugh. People here- ” he waves a hand around vaguely at the paddock, “too serious. No one laughs.”

“Maybe because you’re out here accusing people of grand theft auto.”

“Is funny!” he protests, but shrugs, unbothered. “Was weird watching someone else in my seat. But you didn’t crash, so okay. Better than Liam.”

You’re still trying to decide how to digest him when you tilt your head, more curious than cautious. “So, how are you feeling? Like, seriously?”

Yuki takes a sip of Red Bull, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, and shrugs. “Good. Nurse was hot though- made it hard to sleep.”

You choke. “What?”

He nods solemnly. “Kept asking if I was in pain. I said ‘only when you leave.’ She didn’t laugh.”

Your jaw drops. “Yuki!”

“What? Is compliment! Western girls don’t like flirting. I am learning this.”

You double over, hand clapped over your mouth to muffle the full-body bark of laughter that rips out of you.

It’s not just a giggle. It’s not just a chuckle. It’s a goddamn release. The kind of laugh that cracks something open, shoves light into a week full of tightly held breath and buried panic. It escapes you before you can stop it, loud and stupid and ugly, and you don't even care. You’re cackling now, tears pricking at the corners of your eyes, and Yuki is just standing there, proud as hell, crinkled RedBull can in hand, like he’s won.

“HR’s gonna fucking assassinate you,” you wheeze.

“Not if I’m cute,” he replies breezily, then smirks. “Also she gave me extra Jell-O. So maybe she liked it.” He shrugs again, casual as ever. “No one else makes jokes. You look like you need jokes.” He’s not wrong. You really do.

You like him.

Instantly.

There’s no posturing, no awkward alpha bullshit, no sizing you up. He’s just short, funny, vaguely inappropriate, and deeply committed to creating problems for himself- you can already tell. It’s refreshing. Grounding. Especially after weeks of being measured, weighed, and quietly dismissed by every power broker in a pressed shirt.

And when you sit beside him for the team interviews- both of your legs swinging a little because neither of your feet fully touch the floor- you realize that you're not faking the smile on your face.

He talks about his recovery. You talk about Spa. He interrupts you at least three times. You don’t mind. You kind of appreciate it. At one point, a reporter asks how it felt to “borrow” the car. You open your mouth, unsure of how diplomatic you need to be- but Yuki beats you to it. 

“Not borrow,” he deadpans. “Steal. Very fast.”

The room laughs. You do too.

And for the first time since you got that awful job offer, for the first time since they told you “we’ll see how you perform” instead of you belong here- you remember that this is supposed to be fun.

Maybe not always.

But sometimes.

And maybe, just maybe, this weekend won’t kill you after all. 

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

You’ve been in a daze since Wednesday- since the meeting that ended with your name on a contract you didn’t want, and a polite nod that might as well have been a dismissal. “Development driver.” It still clings to you like something sticky and sour, no matter how many times you try to tell yourself it’s a job. A real job. In Formula 1.

But it doesn’t feel like a beginning.

It feels like exile.

You’d spent most of Thursday just trying to act normal. Sticking to your media duties, floating through hospitality like your badge still meant something. And then, somehow, you met Yuki.

Yuki, with his rumpled polo and broken filter. With his shit-eating grin and complete inability to take anything seriously for more than two seconds at a time. He called you a car thief before even saying hello. Told you his nurse was hot and gave him extra Jell-O. Swore he healed “like an anime character.”

He’d made you laugh so hard you had to look away. You hadn’t even realized how much you needed that until the sound was already coming out of your mouth.

That had helped. A little.

But now it’s Friday, and the knot in your stomach has returned, tighter than ever. You’re not driving. You’re not anything. You’re here to “support the team”- whatever the hell that’s supposed to mean when the team doesn’t seem to want you beyond your press value.

And now you’re here, standing just outside the AlphaTauri garage, flipping through a folder of media talking points and trying to pick an outfit that doesn’t make you look like you’re compensating for the fact that your name isn’t on the timing sheet.

You spot her before she spots you.

Kelly.

Standing just outside the hospitality unit, phone in one hand, sunglasses pushed up into her hair. She’s dressed like she belongs in an art gallery, not a paddock- every piece perfectly tailored, breezy but curated, her long dark hair catching light like it’s staged. Kelly Piquet moves like she owns the asphalt, like she’s never once tripped in heels or said the wrong thing at a dinner party.

You hesitate.

Because the last time you were in the same room, it was that dinner. Jos holding court like a kingmaker. Kelly arriving just late enough to blow the whole dynamic to hell. She hadn’t spoken to you that night. Barely looked at you, even.

And it wasn’t hard to do the math.

She had a bone to pick with Jos. You’ve been parked at his estate like a well-groomed house pet for three weeks. It wouldn’t be insane to think her issue had transferred.

You’re still deciding whether to play invisible when she catches your eye and lights up like you’re a familiar face in a sea of cameras.

Okay. Not invisible then.

She straightens, tucking her phone into the crook of her arm, smile cooling into something softer. Less camera-ready. More real. "Hey, you," she says, like it's nothing. Like there isn’t a single jagged edge between you.

You stop, offering a nod, unsure if she’s being polite or political.

"Didn’t think I’d get to see you before practice," she adds, stepping closer. "You’ve been everywhere this week. Media’s obsessed."

There’s no heat in it. No jealousy. Just a matter-of-fact observation. You exhale- quietly, so it doesn’t look like relief. “Trying to make the most of it,” you say, and it sounds humble enough to pass.

Kelly grins. “So I’ve heard. It’s been a while since anyone shook things up that fast. I like it. Keeps them on their toes.”

You study her for a second. The way she tilts her head, the way her eyes scan you- not judgmentally, just curiously. She doesn’t look put off. She doesn’t look territorial. She just looks… interested. A beat passes. The sun creeps higher above the paddock. You shift awkwardly, glancing at the phone in your hand. Ah shit, what the hell do you have to talk to her about that isn’t cars or weird ass Verstappen dinners?

You take a chance. 

“So,” you say, tapping the screen, “I have to go play pretend for the cameras in about an hour, and I cannot decide what to wear. You seem like a credible source.” You gesture to her perfectly curated ensemble- easy, breezy, beautiful. Covergirl- in every sense of the word. 

You swipe twice, then tilt your phone toward her. “Option one,” you say, pointing, “makes me look serious, professional, credible. Option two makes me look serious, professional, credible…but also a little…?” You just trail off, not even bothering to find a word for it, but it speaks for itself. It’s nothing bold, nothing scandalous, but you’re not sure if having shoulders is a crime for a driver in possession of tits.

Kelly nods, considering both. She seems to understand your wordless dilemma.

“And which one,” you add dryly, “says ‘I’m hot enough that you want to help me, but not so hot you assume I slept my way here?’”

Kelly bursts into laughter- an actual laugh, open-mouthed and unapologetic. “Oh, that’s good,” she says. “God, I should’ve asked myself that more often.”

You laugh too, because it’s either that or scream. “It’s exhausting. I’ve had to explain to five people today that I’m not driving this weekend, just doing press.”

Kelly makes a face. “They keep assuming because you’re competent. What a concept.”

You grin. “Right? How dare I not crash the car.”

She taps the screen again. “Wear this one,” she says, pointing to the second outfit. “It says, ‘I am taking this seriously,’ but it also says, ‘you should be just a little afraid to interview me.’”

You huff a small laugh, glancing down at the outfit in question. A sleeveless blouse with sharp lines, high-waisted trousers that still move like second skin. Sleek, strategic. No fuss, no apologies. You’d picked it half-seriously the night before, too tired to overthink and too bitter to hope it mattered. Now, looking at it through her lens, it actually feels… not terrible. 

“Sold,” you say, sliding the phone back into your pocket.

Kelly smiles, smaller this time- quieter- but the warmth in it doesn’t waver. It’s a real smile. One that asks for nothing in return. And in this place? That’s rare.

“I meant what I said,” she adds, adjusting the sunglasses perched on her head. “I’m glad you’re here.”

You nod once, letting it land properly this time. “Me too.”

You’re about to say something else- maybe even thank her, maybe something about how it’s nice to talk to someone who actually feels like a human being in a paddock full of manufactured soundbites- when it happens.

Your name tears through the hum of the paddock like a whipcrack. Not casual. Not polite.

Urgent. You turn on instinct.

Gavin is running. Not walking. Not striding. Running.

He’s weaving through bodies, gear crates, and camera rigs like he doesn’t see any of it. Your race bag is slung over one shoulder, bouncing against his back with every step. One of your gloves is dangling out the side, flapping in time with his pace.

Your stomach flips.

“What-?” you start, stepping toward him.

He doesn’t slow. Doesn’t greet Kelly. Doesn’t ask if it’s a good time.

“Get changed,” he says, voice short and breathless, already thrusting the bag into your arms. “Quali starts in forty.”

For a beat, your brain doesn’t register what he’s just said. The words make sense individually, but they don’t compute. It’s like someone flipped a switch inside your chest and shorted the circuit. Like a differential gear with every tooth sanded smooth- spinning and going nowhere fast. 

“Wait- I’m not- ” You fumble, still clinging to the fact that you have a press schedule in your back pocket, still halfway inside the moment with Kelly, still trying to remember which lipstick you packed.

Gavin shakes his head, sharp and definitive. “You are now. Yuki’s out. He’s in a bad way. They just pulled him ten minutes ago. You’re in.” The paddock tilts around you. Not literally- but close enough. For one wild second, it feels like you’re going to fall forward and keep falling.

Kelly’s eyes widen as she glances from Gavin to you, but she doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t have to. You can feel the shift in her, too- how one moment ago you were talking about outfit optics and now you’re standing on the edge of fire.

You nod. Once. Fast.

And then you move.

The bag is heavy in your hands, the shoulder strap digging into your collarbone as you pivot on your heel and sprint toward the motorhome. Every breath tightens the knot in your chest, but there’s no time for that now. No time to feel anything except the familiar roar building in your ribs.

You’re in.

You’re fucking in.

You’re stepping into your fireproofs before you’re fully convinced this is real.

The engine fires. The car lurches.

And you go.

On Saturday, you qualify P8.

You pull into the garage shaking, lungs full of adrenaline, hands still twitching around the wheel.

You’re not supposed to be here. Again.

But you are. Again.

P8. Not a fluke. Not a charity lap. Just a pure, clean, fuck you kind of speed.

You try to let it sink in as you wind down, the garage going quiet, the paddock thinning out, the engineers going home. Try to tell your body to settle, to rest, to prepare. But your body doesn’t know how to settle anymore. Not after this week.

So you eat half a sandwich, lie awake until 2AM, and stare at the ceiling until your call time rolls around. By lights out, you’ve burned through every scenario imaginable. But none of them look quite like this.

════════════════════ஓ๑♡๑ஓ══════════════════

Series Masterlist

Whoo. You made it. Promise we see Max tomorrow- and just about every chapter after that. I was trying to cram it all in and it just wasn't working.

[glowettee]

｡𖦹 °✩creating your perfect comeback strategy - part 3/5 🎀｡𖦹 °✩

1st post 2nd post

posted by: glowettee

hey gorgeous studybugs! ♡

time for the most exciting part of the bad grade recovery series - planning your academic glow-up!!!!!! after analyzing what went wrong, we're now going to create the most effective (and aesthetic) comeback plan ever. this post will seriously help you with any class.

♡ setting goals (but make them realistic)

let's break this down into manageable pieces:

short-term goals:

identify the exact grade you need on next assignments

set weekly study targets (be specific with hours!)

plan concept mastery checkpoints

create mini-deadlines for improvement

long-term goals:

final grade target

overall understanding improvements

study habit transformations

confidence rebuilding

♡ your new study schedule

this isn't just any schedule - it's your academic glow-up timeline, so make it important:

morning routine:

quick concept review (15 mins while having your morning tea)

plan your study goals for the day

organize materials needed

set up your study space

daily study blocks:

45-minute focused sessions (i use a cute timer app)

15-minute aesthetic breaks (stretch, hydrate, quick tiktok check)

alternate between subjects

include active recall exercises

evening review:

30-minute summary of what you learned

prep materials for tomorrow

quick self-quiz

celebrate small wins!

♡ the actual study techniques (that actually work)

here's what really helps:

active recall methods:

teach concepts to your stuffed animals (seriously, it works!)

create practice questions

draw concept maps (make them pretty but functional)

record voice notes explaining topics

write summaries without looking at notes

understanding checks:

can you explain it to someone else?

can you solve problems without references?

can you connect different concepts?

do you understand why, not just how?

♡ resource maximization (because we're being smart about this)

time to use everything available:

professor/teacher resources:

office hours (schedule them in advance!)

email questions (keep them specific and organized)

extra materials they recommend

past exam reviews

study support:

form a study group (2-4 people max)

use tutoring services

online resources (but pick reliable ones!)

practice problems from textbook

supplementary videos

♡ your accountability system

staying on track is crucial:

daily checks:

study log (track actual study time)

concept understanding rating

questions that came up

what worked/didn't work

weekly reviews:

progress check

study method effectiveness

time management evaluation

goals met/missed

adjustments needed

♡ creating your perfect study environment

because aesthetics actually help:

physical space:

clean desk (but keep it cute)

good lighting (natural light is best!)

comfortable seating

all materials within reach

minimal distractions

study essentials:

colored pens/highlighters

sticky notes

planner

water bottle

healthy snacks

background music playlist

♡ emergency backup plans

because life happens:

plan b strategies:

alternate study locations

backup study materials

digital copies of important notes

emergency contact list for help

quick review sheets for cramming

stress-relief techniques

this isn't just about recovering from one bad grade - it's about creating a sustainable study system that works for you! - it needs to be consistent, personalized, and something you'll actually stick to!

the next post, i will talk about how to actually execute this plan (and what to do when things get tough).

xoxo, mindy 🎀

[redscharms]

I can't believe that I managed to recover my account.

Hello, my lovelies. So many things have happened since the last time I was able to log into this account.

I was very careless with my accounts so when I lost my phone I lost the possibility to recover the password for this email and my backup email too.

I accidentally discovered that I was still logged into my gmail account on my mom's old iPad - I used it when I traveled once and completely forgot it was still there.

This feels so surreal. To be able to log into this account again.

I don't even know where to start and what to say. I saw some of your messages and it made me tear up.

To address my surgery - it went well but then I had some complications and after the long recovery I had to move again. I lost my previous job, had to find another one quickly. Unfortunately the new job had such a toxic environment that it drained me emotionally and physically for a while.

I didn't have much time for myself and for a period of time I was stuck in the loop of the work-home-work-home routine that made me lose any motivation to do anything else but sleep and watch Youtube videos occasionally.

Sorry that I made you worry. It was very selfish of me not to try and reach out when I lost this account but I couldn't bring myself to do anything at all, crushed by my exhausting work schedule and the realization of having no other alternative at that moment.

[sabraeal]

at home with the glass half empty, Part 2

[Read on AO3]

Sunlight already spills through the blinds when Gojo’s ringtone rattles across his bedside table, phone millimeters away from a precipitous— and most assuredly, screen-shattering— drop. That is, before Nanami slaps a hand out, snatching its death from the jaws of fate. “This better be good.”

“Nanami-kun.” Gojo-senpai’s never breathless— not since that time he went up against Fushiguro— but he doesn’t bother to croon and that’s warning enough. “As long as you’re flexible on the definition of ‘good,’ I think we can both walk away happy on this one.”

He scrapes a hand over his face, swallowing a groan. “Might I remind you, this is my day off.”

“I’m afraid the cursed spirits didn’t get the memo.” Gojo-senpai laughs. Not that fake one he does to play at being normal, fooling no one but his students, but the other kind— the harsher one that scrapes up from his throat when he’s winning. Coupled with the crack in the background, like a felled tree— no, telephone pole, Nanami realizes— threatening to fall, he can take a guess at what his senpai has gotten up to in the twelve hours since he’s last seen him. “No rest for the wicked and all that.”

There’s no effort in sitting up in bed, in pinching his nose and letting the air rush through his teeth, but that doesn’t change the fact that Nanami doesn’t want to do any of it. “Are you fighting it right now?”

“Well, I asked if it’d give me a moment to make a call” — there’s another crash, metallic this time, and he can only hope it’s a mailbox or vending machine and not some car— “but it didn’t seem amenable.”

Nanami stifles a sigh, swinging his legs over the side of the mattress, the chill of the floor seeping up through his heels. “Where are you?”

“Close. Just down the street really.” No time for coffee then, not even to fortify him against whatever bullshit Gojo-senpai is choosing to play close to his chest. “I’ll send you my location. I’ve got another guy meeting us there. Now, gotta go! I think this next bit might take two hands.”

“But—” The call cuts out with a swift click, the duration flashing across the screen —1:20— before it goes dark, leaving him with only thin strips of sunlight leaving tiger stripes across his covers.

He should have known better, really. Nearly a year and a half back in this world, and it’s the same as it had been when he was in school: last minute, frantic, no information, no questions. His phone rumbles in his hand— Gojo’s email, the only contents a set of geo coordinates. Two blocks away, as promised. A relief, since the last time senpai informed him a hunt was ‘just down the street’, it was on the other side of Shibuya.

A man his age shouldn’t creak getting out of bed, but after yesterday’s hard landing— two flights down onto a fire escape that would have held his weight in high school, but as an adult, decided to squeal and groan and unceremoniously give out over the dumpster below— everything from his shoulders down is shot. If he’d known he wouldn’t have his requisite forty-eight hour recovery period, he would have let Ieiri-sensei look at him. Now he’ll have to settle for only fixing the problems a hot shower can solve.

Halfway through his trudge to the bathroom, memory niggles at him, and his frown furrows deeper into the sharp planes of his face. “’Another guy?’”

*

“H-hold up there, Kento-san.” Takuma’s all wide eyes beneath the edge of his mask, hands held up like he has any chance of holding another grown man’s weight. Trust Gojo-senpai to mention arranging backup and have it be some child, barely graduated and still smelling of spring. “Are you sure you can handle getting up to your place all by yourself? I mean, I could always—”

“It has an elevator.” A dubious eye inspects where his hand presses to his side, bright red staining pale blue. “I can make it across the lobby. This is hardly the worst injury I’ve ever gotten, Takuma-kun.”

At least the child isn’t still wearing his school uniform. Unlike some actual grown men Nanami has the displeasure of associating with. “Shouldn’t you have Ieiri-sensei take a look? Gojo-sen— er, Gojo-san said that you had a bit of a spill yesterday too.”

Funny, he hadn’t seemed too concerned with it at the time. Perhaps he had been too busy yucking it up to pass on his condolences. “I have a perfectly serviceable set of bandages in my apartment. Ieiri-sensei has more than enough on her plate, she doesn’t need to be dealing with a little scrape like this.”

“Scrape?” Takuma squints into his wince. “That thing looks like it’ll need stitches at least.”

Good thing he’d taught himself to do them back in first year. One could only wonder what they were teaching the children now if even a cut like this had them scrambling to see someone with the reverse curse technique. “I’ll handle it. Now, make sure you have someone look at that head of yours. Concussions may not present obvious symptoms at first, but they can pose quite serious problems if untreated.”

“Are you kidding me?” the kid huffs as Nanami turns toward the doors, arms thrown up in the air. “You’re bleeding out over there, but I get a tap on the head, and you think I should see a doctor?”

“You’re a promising sorcerer, Takuma-kun.” An understatement; barely a few months out of school and he’d managed to acquit himself well in a fight that had taxed even Nanami’s reserves. Not as much of an accomplishment during work hours, he’ll admit, but if he’d been considering overtime, then the spirit was no slouch. “It would be a pity for you to be taken out of the fight by a simple mistake.”

Air hisses through the boy’s teeth, and in the reflective glass of the door, Nanami sees him shake his head. “You’re really something else, Kento-san.”

“Trust me,” he croaks, hooking the handle with his free hand. “I know.”

*

The classic location to stitch up wounds is the bathroom, perched on the edge of the tub while the easily bleached white porcelain accepts the brunt of the bleeding. But trading down from a stockbroker to a sorcerer’s salary had necessitated the removal of a few everyday luxuries of his last apartment, one of them being the soaking tub. So between balancing his sewing kit on the sink crushed between shower and toilet, and a flat and clean countertop, it’s the kitchen that wins out as his makeshift emergency ward.

A mistake, since even as he strings the sutures from flesh to ragged flesh, the muscles of his abdomen clenching from the sting, he sees it— that wrinkled scrap of white visible no matter what angle he approaches his morning coffee. It mocks him from its place on the counter; his scarlet letter, a badge of shame, the physical proof of his wavering resolve; an accusation and a condemnation all at once.

Sayo, the characters still read, not a single stroke of it or the number beneath the slightest bit smudged. How could it be, when it hadn’t managed to stay in the bin long enough for him to finish his jambon-beurre? He winces, not from the sensation of string sliding through skin, but his own lack of discipline. How many excuses had he found to walk past it that night? Just a glass of water this time. Then a perusal of condiments, wondering if his dinner might need any, only to decide— three times!— that no improvements were possible on such perfection. Followed by a foray for the proper side dish for a sandwich of that caliber.

He cannot recall the exact instance that he plucked it from its resting place, only that one moment it was canted on its paper bag, destined for the municipal dump, and the next it was cradled in his hand. Foolish for him to set it up like that, as if it were an idol on a shrine; his countertop a poor excuse for an altar. Even more foolish still to have rescued it at all.

It’s a crutch, he knows; proof that there’s another world out there, one he could be part of if he so chose. A place he could possibly escape to, so long as he turned a blind eye to the grotesques that slithered around every corner, ignoring every monstrous curse that clung to a smiling stranger. A simple task to put his back to the single evil that he could change and mindlessly participate in worsening the rest.

There’s no point in keeping it. He tried that once; staying away, being normal. Exchanging endless existential dread for the everyday concerns of status and reputation and making ends meet. Focusing his attention on the money he could make rather than the curses he could dispatch. Sorcerers rarely made it to retirement, and Nanami wanted to to have the chance at a life, at a family, at something that might pass for love. To travel, to see more of the world than the darkest places in Japan, tearing evil out by the root. To see forty, and the crows feet it might bring.

He’d had so many plans that day he’d left, so many hopes. And all he had done in those four years was make rich men richer.

One day, when he’s been run through and wrung out, missing limbs or eyes and no longer of use as a sorcerer at all, he might go back there. Might take that chance for a normal life. But— he hisses, skin pulling tight as he knots the gut— it won’t be any time soon.

And yet. Yet.

*

It’s not about the girl, he decides as the bell chimes above his head. It’s about the fly-head; about how in twelve months, she’d had one nearly as large as the last. How it’s nearly been five months now— no, six— and she might have another just as big. It’s not common for curses to act like that, to keep clinging even once they’re exorcised. For someone to keep attracting them, even once cleansed.

There’s something going on, is all. A reason for fly-head after fly-head to keep chittering in her ear, nibbling the shine off her smile. And if he can fix it, well—

Then he can stop wondering about it. One day off is a fair price for his peace of mind, even if his side twinges with every sway of the metro. Even standing here, lost among the tables and chairs, takes a kind of stamina, though with the way one of the cashiers looks at him— a quick once over from the broguing on his wingtips to the sleek shape of his hairline— he’s wondering if that particular anguish is less physical and more…social.

There’s no rush at the moment; just as he planned. It’d been tempting to come as soon as it opened, to disappear into the rush of salarymen looking for morning coffees and warm breakfast sandwiches, but the thought of surviving those mindless drones and their jostling elbows makes him suppress a shudder, even now. And in any case, it would be easier to assess the progress of any curse without a line of hungry customers between him and the baker. Or at least it would, if she were manning the counter. Which she isn’t today, it seems.

Ridiculous. This little side trip ended up futile as he knew it would be. He came all the way here— even crossed through Shibuya— only to be fouled up by a concept so simple as shift work. Typical.

The other cashier at the counter glances up, catching their co-worker’s inattention. It’s strange to see a diligent employee from this angle; the way her brows furrow and her cheeks puff, exasperation in every ounce of her sigh. In the way her mouth rounds, ready to call out, when—

When she lets her gaze slip from them to the object of their attention. The one standing at the back of the shop. Namely, him.

Ah, yes. This was definitely a mistake.

Her eyes widen, and she digs an elbow into her co-worker’s side, earning herself a startled glance. There’s some sort of miming— something around her neck, and then a hand shot up high in the air, and the other girl nods, scurrying to the back. A curious occurrence, but not one he has any reason to bother himself with.

At least, not until the baker emerges from the kitchen, sans beret this time, head swiveling like one of her displays.

“It’s you!” Clouds must part somewhere beyond the bakery windows; there is no other reason for the girl’s face to brighten so much between one breath in the next. A soft clap brings her hands together, every pore of her far more pleased than he can account for. “Just give me one minute, I’ll…”

She edges around the counter, back to him as she bends over a case, the white line of her shoulders bared to him— and there it is, that same damn curse, small and larval, one of its tendrils curled around the curve of her neck. Obnoxious, that’s what it is. Tenacious. He might respect it, if it was anything but a mindless manifestation of the world’s misery and malaise.

As it is, he can only think of the movements to exorcise it; the precise methods he might use to keep another of its kind from gaining traction again—

“Here.” A white bag hangs in front of him, her smile peeking around the edge of it. “Your casse-croute. On the house.”

“I…” The paper settles into his hands, awkwardly cradled between his palms. It’s a jambon-beurre, he wants to say, or, it’s pronounced casse-croûte, but he can’t manage it over the ringing in his ears, an alarm set off from far away. “I haven’t even ordered anything…”

“I told you, didn’t I?” She rocks on her toes, just once, her smile stretched wide. “I keep one ready,  hoping you’ll drop by.”

That’s not quite the way she put it before, he’s sure, but with Gojo’s finger pressed to a temple, he couldn’t say why. “Oh. Thank you.”

“I don’t know what it is you do with your hands or whatever, but” —she rotates her shoulders, one after the other, a fine display of physical fitness— “I can’t complain with the results. My neck feels wonderful after you’re done. A sandwich is the least I can do.”

There’s far, far less she could be doing— that most people do, whether they mean to or not— but that’s not what he says. No, instead he catches that little tail of her curse lashing from the corner of his eye, and asks, “And how are you doing now?”

That gets a blink out of her, a recoil that drives her one step back. A much safer distance, in his opinion. “Excuse me?

“You’re all right, aren’t you?” He’s too large a man to follow her forward or even bend down in inquiry; he knows all too well how intimidating all hundred and eighty-four of his centimeters will be to a girl her size. He’d gotten more than his fair share of kicks aimed at his shins-- courtesy of his much more…vertically challenged senpai--before he’d learned that fact for good. “Feeling well? Sleeping well? Nothing—?”

The bell jingles behind him, and Nanami steps aside as a customer elbows past, eyes reserved solely for the chalkboard hung on the brickwork.

“I’m doing fine,” she murmurs, absent, attention drawn to where the customer stops just short of the till, shooting out his order rapid-fire as her employee keyed it into the cash register. With a shake, she turns back to him. “I supposed I can’t really complain. I mean, except for this little twinge—”

Her fingers brush over the joint between neck and shoulder— right where that little bastard curls his tendril tighter, siphoning off a sip of her pain— and then skitter away, knocked askew by the next customer through the door. At least this one mutters an apology before they skirt past, bobbing a bow as their companion comes around the other side, asking, “Have you tried the sandwiches here? I’ve heard they’re to die for.”

“Ah, sorry.” The baker wrings her hands as another glut of customers traipse through the doors, louder this time, debating their orders only a few steps away. “I guess the lunch rush is starting early today. If you don’t mind, I could just—”

“Don’t worry.” He raises a hand to ward off her apologies, shaking his head. “I’ve taken too much of your time already.”

“No, I—”

“Thank you again for the sandwich.” He holds up the bag, offering her a faint smile. It’s the least he can do, when she’s already been so kind. “I can just—”

“Wait!” Fingers brush over his sleeve, dimpling 100% cotton but flinching away before they can meet the more solid barrier of his flesh. “Ah, I just thought…after the rush, I can have someone watch the till. And maybe” — she glances up at him, eyes far too wide, too hopeful to be aimed at him— “I could take you to dinner? As a thank you, I mean.”

He blinks. “It’s lunch.”

“Oh!” Her hand claps to her cheek, the pink blooming there all the more obvious for it. “Right, of course. How silly of me. But maybe I could, um…”

Both their eyes drop to the bag clutched in his hand, still hanging between them. “You already gave me mine,” he reminds her, gently.

“Right, of course I did. But I mean…” She grimaces, gaze darting to the windows. “Coffee? Not here. But, um, elsewhere?”

You’ve got to watch out for women, Nanami-kun. Even now he remembers how Gojo-senpai’s glasses glinted under the summer sun, the slant of his grin hiding an edge while Geto-senpai shook his head. They’re always trying to get you to a secondary location.

What for? Nanami had asked, only fifteen and already suspicious of the advice his senpai doled out with the same enthusiasm creepy old men on street corners did candy.

One long, pale finger pressed to his lips. I’ll tell you when you’re older.

Ridiculous to think of it now, when this baker is only wanting to thank him. When his only reason for accepting is to understand how to rid her of that stupid fly-head once and for all.

It chitters on her shoulder, bug eyes cocking, curious. As if it could sense even a fraction of his malevolent intention. As if it were just becoming cognizant enough to realize he might be an enemy.

“I suppose…” The words ring out in too high a register, and he clears his throat. “Coffee would be nice.”

*

“I’m sorry to make you wait.” The baker is flushed when she hurries out to meet him, tossing a warning glare through the glass doors at the two cashiers waving them off. “I never thought it would last that long!”

Without the red beret and chef’s coat, she might well be a stranger, the sort he might pass on the station platform without even a second glance. Perhaps he has before, eyes only drawn for a moment by the fluttering of her hair— so different now that she’s released it from the care of its holder— before he let them slip away. “It was no trouble at all.”

“It was an hour and a half,” she laughs, shaking her head. “Honestly, you’d think if the rush started early, it’d have the decency to end early. But at least we don’t have far to go— the café’s just around the corner.”

“So close?” He’s not sure about the wisdom of eating at the competition, but the question doesn’t make her skip a step, even though she takes two to three for every one of his, no matter how he tries to slow his pace. “That seems like a…conflict of interest.”

“Oh, no, not at all. They have a metro stop right on the other side of this street, so they get customers from that station, and we get ours from the one right outside, so it’s just like…ships passing in the night, or whatever. But I come here sometimes when I get tired of the coffee we make.”

He blinks down at her, tracing the haphazard line of her part. For as much care as she’s taken to straighten her clothes, it seems letting her hair down had been a last minute decision, a few strands falling astray. “You get tired of your coffee?”

“Not really,” she admits, slanting a smile up at him. “But it’s good to get away sometimes. Put a little distance between me and my work, if you know what I mean.”

Nanami lets his mouth hook at a corner. “I think I do.”

Her breath catches, right before her eyes slip away, catching on a chalk sign board. “Ah, um, here it is. Do you mind sitting outside? It’s nice today.”

It is— warm enough that when he slings his jacket over the back of his chair, the breeze is still pleasant. Summer hasn’t quite arrived, but its perfume unfurls over the city, enticing its denizens to linger, to let the sun wash over them for just a few minutes longer each day.

He lets his eyes shutter, just for a moment, wind running its fingers through his hair. “This is quite nice.”

“Isn’t it?” The baker— ah, Sayo, he supposes, at least with her out of uniform— slides into the seat across from him, propping her chin up with a hand. “Our sandwiches are better, that’s for sure, but I wish we had the square footage for an outdoor space like this. I’d need another full employee to bus those tables, but— ah, just ignore me! I didn’t bring you here to complain about business stuff.”

“It’s quite alright.” Better, actually, since it gives him the excuse to segue into, “You were saying your neck was getting tight again?”

“Well, yeah, it’s getting that way lately, right up around— ah, no wait!” The hand she’d lifted to her neck falls onto her cheek instead, covering an embarrassed giggle. “I’m taking you out to thank you! Not to fish for, er, well…”

“It hadn’t crossed my mind,” he assures her, letting his mouth curve into a softer shape. “But I’m happy to know that I’ve been able to help, at least a little.”

“More than little!” she insists with a laugh. “I don’t know what it is you do, but I even sleep better after. Better than any massage I’ve ever gotten!”

“Glad to hear it.” If only glares could exorcise curses, the fly-head on her shoulder would already be withered, just black energy flaking off in the breeze. But instead it just wriggles its eye stalks at him, undaunted. “But it is getting worse, isn’t it?”

“Oh, well, maybe just a twinge here and there.” Even as she waves him off, her hand lifts, working at that joint where the fly-head sits, eating his fill. “You know, the regular amount of stress.”

“Really.” Nanami leans over the table, attentive, the fly-head quivering under his stare. “Or would you say you have more than the usual amount of stress? More…complex problems?”

“What?” Her mouth hooks, rueful. “You mean aside from all the regular problems of running a bakery?”

“Oh.” He blinks, settling back. That’s right; she owns a business. Not in itself enough to spawn these little pests, but possibly a contributing factor. “Of course, that must be difficult. You seem to be doing so well, I hadn’t even considered…”

“Very well,” she informs him with no little pride. “But you know how it is. There’s always a machine that’s breaking or a dough that doesn’t rise right, or a batch that comes out wrong. The nature of the beast, or whatever.” She shrugs, unruffled. “I’m just lucky that it was doing so well when I took over. Keeping an already profitable business in the black is a heck of a lot easier than trying to drag one out of the red. Or worse, starting one from scratch!”

His brows raise, appraising her. “It wasn’t your business to start? So you bought it off the former—?”

“Oh, no no no.” She waves a hand, laughing. “No way, I could have never afforded something like that. It used to be my parents’— my mother’s really. But she died while I was in uni, so I picked up a few shifts around the place to help my dad out. But then he got sick a few years back, and…”

She strives for casual when she shrugs, but he can see the jagged edges in it, the places where a little fly-headed bastard could really stick its proboscis in and cause trouble. “My younger brother’s at university now, trying to be some sort of engineer. With Mom gone and Dad pretty much retired, someone has to make the money to get him through the rest of his degree. And that’s not even talking about Dad’s treatment…”

“That’s a lot for someone your age.” And would certainly explain how these curses keep glutting themselves on her the second he turns his back.

“Oh!” Her laugh is softer this time, accompanied by a delicate flush across her cheeks. “I’m not…I’m not that young.”

Nanami cocks his head, mouth flirting with a frown. “You’re younger than me, clearly.”

“Maybe. I’m twenty-seven.” She sighs over her coffee, chin in hand. “You know, my grandmother likes to remind me she was married at my age. With three kids! I’m lucky to keep a plant alive.”

He doesn’t realize his mouth is open until he closes it to swallow his, “Ah…”

“What?” Her head tilts, playful. “Can’t believe it? I know, everyone says I have a babyface.”

“No, it’s not that. I mean, you do have a very youthful face.” He wouldn’t have placed her above twenty-two, and even then, it would have been a stretch— but that’s not why he clears his throat, his own face suddenly hot. “It’s just…I’m twenty-five.”

“Oh!” It’s her turn for her eyes to go wide, for her own jaw to slacken in disbelief. “You’re a baby!”

A scowl slips out of him before he thinks to suppress it. “Only two years younger.”

“You’re almost my brother’s age.” A corner of her mouth twitches; she ducks her chin to hide it. A futile exercise when he can already see the way her shoulders shiver. “Practically in the cradle.”

“I think,” he says, testing out each teasing step of his tone as if it might give out beneath him. “You’d be hard pressed to find one that would fit me.”

Her gaze cuts across the straight line of his shoulders. “That’s for sure.”

They both take a sip of their coffee— regular for him, two creams, no sugar, and hers some a latte of some sort, the pattern in the cup long since gone. He’d been too distracted to even look at what it was. Strange; it was the sort of detail he liked to note in the coffee shops he visited. A good artist usually denoted a high quality café, and if there was one thing his former life had shown him, it was that every bit of luxury was well-worth the price you paid for it.

“It’s funny.” She’s quieter now, more thoughtful as she speaks. Slower, even, as if she’s savoring the taste. Or perhaps the moment. “I don’t think I’ve ever told anyone about this sort of stuff. You know, my mom, my dad. Daisuke’s tuition. Honestly, I’m not sure I’ve really talked to anyone since my mom died. Not about real stuff.”

He hums, sipping at his drink. The bitterness floods his mouth; an apt flavor for when he says, “It’s hard to talk about grief with those that haven’t experienced it.”

Sayo glances up at him. “Have you?”

It’s impossible not to remember Haibara and his quick laugh, the boyish face that never missed a chance to smirk or smile. Boyish— ha, of course. He’d never had the chance to be anything but. Right at the cusp of manhood, plucked from the precipice before he could fall over it. Hardly the only friend he'd lost during those years, just...the first. The hardest.

“Yes.” He clears his throat, blinking away the sting in his eyes. “You could say that.”

She’s quiet for a moment, contemplating her cup. “Does it ever get easier, do you think? Carrying it around like this?”

“I think it only gets different.” Easier to forget about in the moment, at least, but perhaps that’s because Haibara was a only friend, not family, and certainly not...something more complicated. Just someone he knew for a few brief years in his life. “But it’s easier when you talk to people who have suffered in the same way. Harder to find, but they are here, if you look.”

Her head tilts, her mouth matching its angle. “Like you.”

Ah, that was foolish of him. Here he is trying to close the door on this world, and he's gone and practically held it open for her to slip through. “I don’t think that’s….”

His tongue trips over itself, tangling as his gaze darts somewhere, anywhere but her eyes and finds— the fly-head. Significantly smaller now, chittering angrily.

“I suppose,” he sighs, wearily. “If you need too.”

“Then we should exchange contacts, shouldn’t we?” She plucks her phone from her purse, giving it a cheeky little wave. It’d be charming, if he didn’t know what a terrible idea this would be. “If we’re going to talk, that is.”

“Of course.” He slides his own out of his pocket, passing it over hers until it beeps. Hamasaki, it reads, Sayo.

“Oh, Nanami!”

A shivers shoots up the length of his spine before fizzling out to his fingers. “Excuse me?”

“Ah, I mean, that’s your name, Kento-san. Kento Nanami-san,” she says, mouth hidden behind her hand. “I just thought it was funny because I’m, well, Sayo.”

He could hardly forget it, the way that paper had haunted him the past few months. “I know.”

“Oh, right, you would have already…” Her cheeks flare a brighter red. “I just thought it was interesting, since the characters of your name are seven and sea, and mine is…”

He blinks, the meaning suddenly resolving in the single character. “Sand.”

“Right.” Her mouth splits wide, into a smile that takes the breath right from his lungs. “We go together, don’t we?”

“I…” It’s terrible how nice that sounds. A coincidence meant for a better man than him. “I should really go.”

“Oh, right! I’m sure my employees will be wondering where I’ve gone off to.” She shakes her head. “Well, anyway, thank you for talking to me, Kento-san. It was…nice.”

It was. Nice. Normal. That’s half the problem. She begins to stand, and before he can stop himself, Nanami blurts out, “Wait. One more thing, if you don’t mind.”

She blinks at him, wide eyed. Too hopeful, once again. “Sure.”

His hand sweeps over her shoulder; a solid, unbroken line. The simplest spell in his repertoire, the first he ever learned. The knit of her sweater tickles the pads of his fingers-- too close, he realizes, sloppy-- and he can't tell whether it's that or the worm's collapse that causes the static to rush through them, both numb and too sensitive all at once. He draws back, arm dropping to his side, and Hamasaki-san—

She’s flushed, breath rattling out of her with noticeable effort.

“There was something on your sweater.” It’s not quite a lie, but still. “Have a good afternoon.”

“R-right,” she murmurs, just barely audible as he strides past. But it’s him that stutters to a stop when she calls out to him on the street, bouncing on her toes as she promises, “Don't forget! I’ll be keeping a sandwich in the case for you.”

[xaltius]

Prevention Techniques for Top 10 Common Cyber Attacks

In the ever-escalating war against cybercriminals, staying informed about the most common attack vectors is half the battle. The other half is implementing robust prevention techniques. As we navigate 2025, the threat landscape continues to evolve, but many foundational attack methods remain prevalent due to their effectiveness.

Here's a breakdown of the top 10 common cyber attacks and the essential prevention techniques to keep you and your organization secure.

1. Phishing & Smishing (SMS Phishing)

The Attack: Attackers impersonate trusted entities (banks, colleagues, popular services) via email or text messages to trick recipients into revealing sensitive information, clicking malicious links, or downloading malware. Modern phishing often uses AI to generate hyper-realistic content.

Prevention Techniques:

Vigilant User Education: Train employees to scrutinize sender email addresses, hover over links to check destinations, and be suspicious of urgent or generic requests. Conduct regular simulated phishing tests.

Multi-Factor Authentication (MFA): Even if credentials are stolen, MFA can block unauthorized access. Enforce it widely.

Email & SMS Security Solutions: Deploy advanced email filters (e.g., Microsoft Defender for Office 365, secure email gateways) that scan for suspicious patterns, attachments, and URLs. Forward suspicious texts to 7726 (SPAM).

DMARC, SPF, DKIM: Implement these email authentication protocols to prevent email spoofing of your own domain.

2. Malware (Viruses, Worms, Trojans)

The Attack: Malicious software designed to disrupt, damage, or gain unauthorized access to computer systems. Malware can be delivered via downloads, malicious websites ("drive-by" attacks), or attachments.

Prevention Techniques:

Antivirus/Endpoint Detection & Response (EDR): Install and keep robust antivirus and EDR solutions updated on all devices.

Regular Software Updates: Patch operating systems, applications, and browsers promptly to close security loopholes that malware exploits.

Firewalls: Use network and host-based firewalls to control incoming and outgoing network traffic.

Download Caution: Only download software and files from trusted, official sources. Scan all downloads before opening.

3. Ransomware

The Attack: A type of malware that encrypts a victim's files or locks their system, demanding a ransom (usually in cryptocurrency) for decryption or restoration of access. It often enters via phishing or exploiting unpatched vulnerabilities.

Prevention Techniques:

Robust Backups: Implement a 3-2-1 backup strategy (3 copies, on 2 different media, with 1 copy off-site and isolated/immutable). Regularly test recovery.

MFA & Strong Passwords: Crucial for protecting remote access services (like RDP) often targeted by ransomware operators.

Vulnerability Management: Continuously scan for and patch vulnerabilities, especially on internet-facing systems.

Network Segmentation: Divide your network into isolated segments to prevent ransomware from spreading laterally if it gains a foothold.

Security Awareness Training: Educate employees about ransomware's common entry points (phishing).

4. Distributed Denial of Service (DDoS) Attacks

The Attack: Overwhelming a target server, service, or network with a flood of internet traffic from multiple compromised computer systems (a botnet), aiming to disrupt normal operations and make services unavailable.

Prevention Techniques:

DDoS Protection Services: Utilize specialized DDoS mitigation services (e.g., Cloudflare, Akamai) that can absorb and filter malicious traffic.

Content Delivery Networks (CDNs): CDNs distribute traffic and cache content, helping to absorb some attack volume and improve resilience.

Rate Limiting: Configure servers and network devices to limit the number of requests they will accept from a single IP address or source over a given time.

Network Redundancy: Ensure your infrastructure has redundant systems and sufficient bandwidth to handle traffic spikes.

5. Man-in-the-Middle (MitM) Attacks

The Attack: An attacker secretly relays and possibly alters the communication between two parties who believe they are directly communicating with each other. This often happens over unsecured Wi-Fi.

Prevention Techniques:

Always Use HTTPS: Ensure websites you visit use HTTPS (look for the padlock icon in the browser address bar) to encrypt communication.

Avoid Public Wi-Fi for Sensitive Tasks: Refrain from accessing banking, email, or other sensitive accounts over unsecured public Wi-Fi networks.

Use VPNs (Virtual Private Networks): VPNs encrypt your internet traffic, creating a secure tunnel even over public networks.

Strong Authentication: Implement MFA and passwordless authentication to mitigate credential theft even if traffic is intercepted.

6. SQL Injection (SQLi)

The Attack: An attacker injects malicious SQL code into input fields of a web application to manipulate the database, potentially leading to unauthorized access, data theft, or data corruption.

Prevention Techniques (primarily for developers):

Prepared Statements & Parameterized Queries: The most effective defense. Treat user input as data, not executable code.

Input Validation & Sanitization: Validate and sanitize all user input on both the client and server sides to ensure it conforms to expected formats and removes malicious characters.

Least Privilege: Grant database accounts only the minimum necessary privileges required for their function.

Web Application Firewall (WAF): WAFs can detect and block common web-based attacks like SQLi.

7. Cross-Site Scripting (XSS)

The Attack: Attackers inject malicious client-side scripts (e.g., JavaScript) into web pages viewed by other users. This can lead to session hijacking, defacement of websites, or redirection to malicious sites.

Prevention Techniques (primarily for developers):

Output Encoding/Escaping: Properly encode or escape all user-supplied data before rendering it in HTML to prevent it from being interpreted as executable code.

Input Validation: Validate user input to ensure it doesn't contain malicious scripts.

Content Security Policy (CSP): Implement a CSP to restrict which sources are allowed to execute scripts on your website.

Sanitize HTML: If your application allows users to input HTML, use robust libraries to sanitize it and remove dangerous tags/attributes.

8. Zero-Day Exploits

The Attack: Exploits that target newly discovered software vulnerabilities for which a patch is not yet available. They are extremely dangerous because there's no immediate defense.

Prevention Techniques:

Layered Security (Defense-in-Depth): Rely on multiple security controls (firewalls, EDR, IDS/IPS, network segmentation) so if one fails, others can still detect or contain the attack.

Behavioral Analysis: Use security tools (like EDR, UEBA) that monitor for anomalous behavior, even if the specific exploit is unknown.

Application Whitelisting: Allow only approved applications to run on your systems, preventing unauthorized or malicious executables.

Rapid Patch Management: While a patch doesn't exist initially, be prepared to deploy it immediately once released.

9. Insider Threats

The Attack: A security breach or data loss caused by a person with authorized access to an organization's systems and data, whether malicious or accidental.

Prevention Techniques:

Principle of Least Privilege (PoLP): Grant users only the minimum access necessary to perform their job functions.

User Behavior Analytics (UBA/UEBA): Monitor user activity for anomalous behaviors (e.g., accessing unusual files, working outside normal hours).

Data Loss Prevention (DLP): Implement DLP solutions to prevent sensitive data from leaving the organization's controlled environment.

Employee Training: Educate employees on security policies, data handling best practices, and recognizing social engineering.

Offboarding Procedures: Have strict procedures for revoking access immediately when an employee leaves.

10. Brute Force & Credential Stuffing

The Attack:

Brute Force: Systematically trying every possible combination of characters until the correct password or encryption key is found.

Credential Stuffing: Using lists of stolen usernames and passwords (from previous breaches) to try and log into accounts on other services.

Prevention Techniques:

Multi-Factor Authentication (MFA): The most effective defense, as attackers need a second factor beyond just the password.

Strong Password Policies: Enforce complex, unique passwords that are difficult to guess.

Account Lockout Mechanisms: Implement policies that temporarily lock accounts after a certain number of failed login attempts.

Rate Limiting: Restrict the number of login attempts from a single IP address over a period.

CAPTCHA Challenges: Introduce CAPTCHAs or other challenge-response mechanisms during login to differentiate humans from bots.

Threat Intelligence: Monitor dark web forums for compromised credentials and prompt affected users to reset their passwords.

By proactively addressing these common attack vectors with a layered and comprehensive security strategy, individuals and organizations can significantly strengthen their defenses and foster a more secure digital environment. Stay informed, stay vigilant, and make cybersecurity a continuous priority.

[josedavis]

What Is Apple ID Accounts?

Buy Apple ID Accounts. An Apple ID is a user account that allows access to various Apple services and products, such as the App Store, iCloud, iTunes, Apple Music, and more. It serves as a single sign-in across all Apple devices and services. The account is tied to the user’s email address and is used to manage personal information, make purchases, and synchronize data across devices like iPhones, iPads, Macs, and more.

Key features of an Apple ID account include:

Access to Apple Services: With an Apple ID, users can access Apple services like iCloud for data storage, Apple Music for streaming, iTunes for media purchases, and the App Store for downloading apps.

Device Synchronization: Apple ID allows users to sync their settings, photos, contacts, and apps across all their Apple devices using iCloud.

Security Features: Apple ID comes with security features like two-factor authentication (2FA) to protect against unauthorized access.

Purchase Management: Users can store payment information and make purchases through Apple’s digital stores, including apps, music, movies, and other content.

Backup and Recovery: With iCloud, Apple ID provides a way to back up device data and restore it if the device is lost or replaced.

Find My iPhone/Mac: This feature helps users locate their devices in case they are lost or stolen by using their Apple ID credentials.

Essentially, an Apple ID acts as a digital identity within Apple’s ecosystem, allowing seamless use of Apple’s hardware, software, and services.

24 Hours Reply/Contact Telegram: @smmvirals24 WhatsApp: +6011-63738310 Skype: smmvirals Email: smmvirals@gmail.com

[classifieds-marketing-news]

Understanding Ransomware: A Guide for Small Businesses

Ransomware is a malicious software that restricts access to your device or data until a ransom is paid. In this article, we explore how ransomware enters your system, how it works, and how to prevent attacks. A ransomware attack occurs when malware prevents access to your device or data until a ransom is paid. Attackers may threaten to publish data if the ransom is not paid. Ransomware can be locker ransomware, which locks access, or crypto ransomware, which encrypts files. Ransomware usually enters a device, assesses critical data, encrypts files, and demands a ransom. Paying the ransom doesn't guarantee recovery, so it's not recommended. Historical ransomware attacks include CryptoLocker, CryptoWall, Locky, WannaCry, NotPetya, and more. To prevent ransomware, you can have good network policies, secure servers, backup data offline and online, and encourage safe online behavior. Installing security software like antivirus, firewall, and email filtering can also help. Advanced strategies include ATP, email filtering, and security audits. In case of a ransomware infection, isolate the device, assess damage, check for a decryption key, and restore from backups. Seek professional help for recovery. Immediate actions post-infection include isolation, incident response activation, legal compliance, and stakeholder communication. Ransomware can get on your device through spam emails, phishing, pop-ups, pirated software, weak passwords, and more. Attackers prefer cryptocurrency payments for anonymity. Ransomware can spread through Wi-Fi, infecting all connected devices. Protect yourself from ransomware by following the prevention strategies mentioned above. Stay safe online and be cautious of suspicious emails, links, and downloads. And remember, it's crucial to have backups and a plan in case of a ransomware attack. #StartupBusiness #Businesses #Guide #howdoesransomwarework #Ransomware #ransomwareattack #Small #Understanding #whatisaransomware #whatisaransomwareattack #whatisransomware https://tinyurl.com/228z9vpf

[shakthi-lahiru]

Professional IT Support Services: Troubleshooting, Setup, and Solutions for Your Business

I offer professional IT support services to help solve all your technology problems, whether you're a small business, freelancer, or individual. I specialize in providing fast, efficient, and cost-effective solutions for a wide range of IT issues. With years of experience in the industry, I’m here to make your technology work for you!

🔧 What I can help you with:

Tech troubleshooting for software and hardware issues

Network setup and configuration

Virus/malware removal and protection

Operating system installation and updates (Windows, macOS, Linux)

Remote IT support for quick and easy fixes

Cloud setup and management (Google Drive, Dropbox, etc.)

Email and website setup

Data backup and recovery

Wi-Fi setup and optimization

Software installation and updates

Printer and peripheral setup

Link

[teqful]

How-To IT

Topic: Core areas of IT

1. Hardware

• Computers (Desktops, Laptops, Workstations)

• Servers and Data Centers

• Networking Devices (Routers, Switches, Modems)

• Storage Devices (HDDs, SSDs, NAS)

• Peripheral Devices (Printers, Scanners, Monitors)

2. Software

• Operating Systems (Windows, Linux, macOS)

• Application Software (Office Suites, ERP, CRM)

• Development Software (IDEs, Code Libraries, APIs)

• Middleware (Integration Tools)

• Security Software (Antivirus, Firewalls, SIEM)

3. Networking and Telecommunications

• LAN/WAN Infrastructure

• Wireless Networking (Wi-Fi, 5G)

• VPNs (Virtual Private Networks)

• Communication Systems (VoIP, Email Servers)

• Internet Services

4. Data Management

• Databases (SQL, NoSQL)

• Data Warehousing

• Big Data Technologies (Hadoop, Spark)

• Backup and Recovery Systems

• Data Integration Tools

5. Cybersecurity

• Network Security

• Endpoint Protection

• Identity and Access Management (IAM)

• Threat Detection and Incident Response

• Encryption and Data Privacy

6. Software Development

• Front-End Development (UI/UX Design)

• Back-End Development

• DevOps and CI/CD Pipelines

• Mobile App Development

• Cloud-Native Development

7. Cloud Computing

• Infrastructure as a Service (IaaS)

• Platform as a Service (PaaS)

• Software as a Service (SaaS)

• Serverless Computing

• Cloud Storage and Management

8. IT Support and Services

• Help Desk Support

• IT Service Management (ITSM)

• System Administration

• Hardware and Software Troubleshooting

• End-User Training

9. Artificial Intelligence and Machine Learning

• AI Algorithms and Frameworks

• Natural Language Processing (NLP)

• Computer Vision

• Robotics

• Predictive Analytics

10. Business Intelligence and Analytics

• Reporting Tools (Tableau, Power BI)

• Data Visualization

• Business Analytics Platforms

• Predictive Modeling

11. Internet of Things (IoT)

• IoT Devices and Sensors

• IoT Platforms

• Edge Computing

• Smart Systems (Homes, Cities, Vehicles)

12. Enterprise Systems

• Enterprise Resource Planning (ERP)

• Customer Relationship Management (CRM)

• Human Resource Management Systems (HRMS)

• Supply Chain Management Systems

13. IT Governance and Compliance

• ITIL (Information Technology Infrastructure Library)

• COBIT (Control Objectives for Information Technologies)

• ISO/IEC Standards

• Regulatory Compliance (GDPR, HIPAA, SOX)

14. Emerging Technologies

• Blockchain

• Quantum Computing

• Augmented Reality (AR) and Virtual Reality (VR)

• 3D Printing

• Digital Twins

15. IT Project Management

• Agile, Scrum, and Kanban

• Waterfall Methodology

• Resource Allocation

• Risk Management

16. IT Infrastructure

• Data Centers

• Virtualization (VMware, Hyper-V)

• Disaster Recovery Planning

• Load Balancing

17. IT Education and Certifications

• Vendor Certifications (Microsoft, Cisco, AWS)

• Training and Development Programs

• Online Learning Platforms

18. IT Operations and Monitoring

• Performance Monitoring (APM, Network Monitoring)

• IT Asset Management

• Event and Incident Management

19. Software Testing

• Manual Testing: Human testers evaluate software by executing test cases without using automation tools.

• Automated Testing: Use of testing tools (e.g., Selenium, JUnit) to run automated scripts and check software behavior.

• Functional Testing: Validating that the software performs its intended functions.

• Non-Functional Testing: Assessing non-functional aspects such as performance, usability, and security.

• Unit Testing: Testing individual components or units of code for correctness.

• Integration Testing: Ensuring that different modules or systems work together as expected.

• System Testing: Verifying the complete software system’s behavior against requirements.

• Acceptance Testing: Conducting tests to confirm that the software meets business requirements (including UAT - User Acceptance Testing).

• Regression Testing: Ensuring that new changes or features do not negatively affect existing functionalities.

• Performance Testing: Testing software performance under various conditions (load, stress, scalability).

• Security Testing: Identifying vulnerabilities and assessing the software’s ability to protect data.

• Compatibility Testing: Ensuring the software works on different operating systems, browsers, or devices.

• Continuous Testing: Integrating testing into the development lifecycle to provide quick feedback and minimize bugs.

• Test Automation Frameworks: Tools and structures used to automate testing processes (e.g., TestNG, Appium).

19. VoIP (Voice over IP)

VoIP Protocols & Standards

• SIP (Session Initiation Protocol)

• H.323

• RTP (Real-Time Transport Protocol)

• MGCP (Media Gateway Control Protocol)

VoIP Hardware

• IP Phones (Desk Phones, Mobile Clients)

• VoIP Gateways

• Analog Telephone Adapters (ATAs)

• VoIP Servers

• Network Switches/ Routers for VoIP

VoIP Software

• Softphones (e.g., Zoiper, X-Lite)

• PBX (Private Branch Exchange) Systems

• VoIP Management Software

• Call Center Solutions (e.g., Asterisk, 3CX)

VoIP Network Infrastructure

• Quality of Service (QoS) Configuration

• VPNs (Virtual Private Networks) for VoIP

• VoIP Traffic Shaping & Bandwidth Management

• Firewall and Security Configurations for VoIP

• Network Monitoring & Optimization Tools

VoIP Security

• Encryption (SRTP, TLS)

• Authentication and Authorization

• Firewall & Intrusion Detection Systems

• VoIP Fraud DetectionVoIP Providers

• Hosted VoIP Services (e.g., RingCentral, Vonage)

• SIP Trunking Providers

• PBX Hosting & Managed Services

VoIP Quality and Testing

• Call Quality Monitoring

• Latency, Jitter, and Packet Loss Testing

• VoIP Performance Metrics and Reporting Tools

• User Acceptance Testing (UAT) for VoIP Systems

Integration with Other Systems

• CRM Integration (e.g., Salesforce with VoIP)

• Unified Communications (UC) Solutions

• Contact Center Integration

• Email, Chat, and Video Communication Integration