#data recovery guide

[vastedge330]

Learn effective Salesforce backup strategies to protect your business data and ensure seamless recovery in case of data loss.

[archivyrep]

Mysterious schematics, mainframes, and preventing worldwide destruction in "What If...?"

When I started the second season of What If…?, I didn’t expect that the first episode (entitled “What If… Nebula Joined the Nova Corps?”) would center on mysterious mechanics, data cores, and secrecy! The first season didn’t have it as directly, apart from one episode (“What If…Ultron Won?“) with a scene almost like one out of Raiders of the Lost Ark, although I compared the Watcher to an…

[truthandadvocacy]

📄 “You don’t need a lawyer to start. You need persistence.” This blog is for anyone who’s ever been dragged online, lied about, or erased by strangers. Here’s how I fought back — and how you can too. 👉 https://calvinleehardie.blog/2025/07/12/how-i-fought-back-and-how-you-can-too #CalvinHardie #ReclaimYourName #RightToBeForgotten #DigitalJustice #FightBack

[hamilton-here]

𝒫𝓇𝑒𝓈𝓈𝓊𝓇𝑒 𝒫𝑜𝒾𝓃𝓉𝓈

Authors Note: Hi lovelies! Here’s another one-shot. Enjoy. I made changes to race dates to make it a bit different. Also after the performance by Ferrari at Imola…I need therapy. Lots of love xx

Summary: A slow-burn romance blossoms between Lewis Hamilton and new grounded physiotherapist during F1, where healing touches turn into something far more intimate.

Warnings: none

Taglist: @nebulastarr @hannibeeblog

MASTERLIST

࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Barcelona – Day Eleven of Testing

The silence in the motorhome was deafening.

Not the kind laced with comfort or familiarity, the kind that wraps around two people like a warm blanket when words aren’t needed. No. This silence was different. It was sharp. Uneasy. The kind that settled between two people who didn’t quite know what to do with each other yet. It didn’t hum it throbbed. Uncomfortable and persistent, like static in the air that refused to clear.

You stood near the counter, clipboard clutched loosely in one hand, pretending to check his hydration schedule for what had to be the fourth time. You weren't fooling anyone not even yourself. You weren’t reading. The rows of data blurred into meaningless numbers, just a distraction from the heavy energy taking up space in the room.

Across from you, Lewis sat hunched over at the edge of the massage table, elbows resting on his knees, phone in hand. He scrolled lazily, without purpose, and didn’t look up once when you entered. No greeting. No eye contact. Just the blue-white glow of the screen reflected in his unreadable eyes.

You had gotten used to the silence over the past few weeks, or at least you told yourself you had. But today, it hit differently. Sharper. Heavier. It filled every corner of the motorhome, settling into your bones, and for the first time since you joined the team, it made your hands tremble.

The way he was sitting tense and folded into himself told you everything. Shoulders drawn up, jaw tight, neck stiff from more than just physical strain. He hadn’t relaxed once since stepping inside. Not even in his own space. That said something. That screamed something.

You cleared your throat quietly. “Okay. Ten minutes on the Normatecs, then we’ll work through active recovery for your hamstrings. That sound alright?”

Nothing. Not a word. Not even a nod.

You moved automatically, rolling out the compression sleeves, checking the connections, setting the timer. The machine hummed to life with a low, rhythmic buzz just one more noise filling the space he refused to break.

He didn’t help. He never did. Since the first day, he’d made it clear you were to do your job while he did his best to pretend you didn’t exist. He wasn’t cruel, not exactly. Just absent. Disconnected in a way that left you wondering whether your presence irritated him, or if he just truly didn’t care.

You crouched beside him, guiding the first sleeve gently over his leg, careful not to let your fingers linger longer than necessary. You were allowed to touch him hell, that was your job but every movement still felt like a negotiation. Like the wrong brush of skin would shatter whatever fragile boundary existed between professional and personal.

Still nothing.

“Hydration levels are low again,” you said, your voice quieter now. Less clinical. Less sure. “I left a new blend in your bottle. Less sodium, more potassium. Should help with the cramping you mentioned yesterday.”

That made him glance up.

Just a flicker.

His eyes deep, dark, and exhausted met yours for half a second. Flat. Impenetrable. Then they dropped again, back to the safety of his phone screen.

You looked away too, suddenly feeling exposed.

You had to remind yourself again that this wasn’t personal. That you were simply the replacement. The new name in the system. The girl brought in to fill the void left by someone else.

You weren’t Angela.

You hadn’t known what brand of tea calmed him before a race. You didn’t understand his routines down to the minute. You hadn’t sat beside him in private jets or walked beside him through years of highs and heartbreaks. You didn’t know him like she did.

You weren’t his best friend. You weren’t even welcome.

You were the stranger occupying a sacred space.

And the worst part? You got it.

You weren’t trying to replace her. You respected what she meant to him how could you not? Her absence was still carved into the walls of his life, her name lingering in the silence he so carefully maintained. You were just trying to do your job. To help him heal, recover, push forward.

But lately, it had started to wear on you. The quiet. The resistance. The constant ache of walking on eggshells around someone you were trying your best not to disappoint.

You sat across from him now, folding your hands in your lap as the Normatecs began their slow, pulsing work. The rhythmic tightening and release of the sleeves was the only consistent sound in the room, aside from the occasional chime of a text notification on his phone.

Three weeks.

That’s how long it had been.

Three weeks of showing up every morning with a quiet resolve, hoping for a nod, a word, something. Three weeks of swallowing your pride and doing your job with a kind of quiet grace that no one applauded. Three weeks of watching him build walls and wondering if you’d ever be allowed to climb over them.

You’d heard the whispers in the paddock.

“She’s temporary.”

“He’ll bring someone else in by mid-season.”

“He hasn’t said two words to her.”

You weren’t there for gossip. You weren’t there to be liked.

Still, some small part of you a part that refused to go numb ached to prove them wrong. Not for your ego. But because, beneath the silence and distance, you felt something in him. Something raw. Something bruised. Something still soft underneath the hardness of it all.

You didn’t want anything from him. Not glory. Not attention. Not even friendship, if he didn’t have it to give.

You just wanted to help him carry the weight. Even for a minute.

But you were starting to wonder if he’d ever let you.

"Angela was his person. Anyone else was always going to be second best."

"I give it a month before she hands in her notice."

You weren’t planning to walk away.

Not after everything it had taken to get here.

Too many years spent in lecture halls, your head down over textbooks filled with muscle diagrams and case studies. Too many late nights in university labs testing recovery theories on willing volunteers. Too many unpaid internships, too many times you’d had to fight for a seat at the table while people with half your qualifications were handed the room. But you earned this. You built your reputation working with Olympic athletes who pushed their bodies to the limit, MotoGP riders stitched together with pins and sheer will and Premier League players who treated pain like a background hum.

You were damn good at your job.

But this?

This was something else.

This wasn’t just about stretching out hamstrings and correcting muscular imbalances. This was about surviving the unrelenting emotional chill of one of the most intense men in motorsport. And somehow, today felt colder than ever.

Lewis sat across the room, the only sound in the motorhome the soft hiss of the air conditioning and the intermittent tap of his thumb against his phone screen. His expression was unreadable. But it always was. That was part of the game if it even was one. The unreadability. The distance. The quiet disdain that radiated off him like static.

He hadn’t looked at you once since you walked in.

You cleared your throat, keeping your voice professional, steady. “Anything feel tight?”

No response. Not even a blink.

You glanced down at your clipboard, scanning over yesterday’s notes just to fill the silence. “I noticed some stiffness in your right calf during cooldown. You were compensating on your push-off stride.”

Still nothing.

Your heart beat just a little faster, but you didn’t let it show. You shifted your weight, pen tapping softly against the clipboard.

“I can adjust the therapy plan if—”

The sound of his phone clacking against the bench made your sentence die in your throat.

Your eyes snapped up.

He was staring at you now finally but not with interest. Not with curiosity. With irritation. Cold and sharp, like he was already regretting the effort it took to acknowledge your existence.

“You don’t have to talk so much.”

You froze.

Not in fear.

In shock.

It was the first full sentence he’d spoken to you since the first day you met. And it was spoken like a command, not a comment. Flat. Dismissive. Almost bored.

Your lips parted slightly, the instinct to defend yourself flaring, but no words came out. You inhaled slowly through your nose, grounding yourself in professionalism, not emotion.

“I’m trying to help,” you said quietly. Controlled. Precise.

He looked at you again, slower this time, his eyes narrowing. His silence stretched long enough that you started to wonder if he was going to speak at all. And then, with a sigh that sounded far too tired for the hour of the day, he said, “I didn’t ask for help. I asked for silence.”

It wasn’t shouted. It wasn’t even particularly harsh.

But it sliced through the air like a scalpel.

You stood there, clipboard still in hand, spine straightening almost involuntarily. You weren’t one for confrontations not in your professional setting. But something about the way he said it, the complete and casual dismissal of you as a person, made the words rise in your throat before you could stop them.

“Well,” you said, tone clipped, tight but not disrespectful, “if you want to avoid tearing your muscles or aggravating your already overworked hip flexors before the weekend, you’ll need more than silence.”

That got his attention.

He blinked, then tilted his head just slightly, as if genuinely surprised you’d spoken back. Like he’d expected you to nod, apologise, and go mute. His lips didn’t move, but the silence shifted. It felt heavier. Denser. As if something in the room had changed.

You didn’t flinch.

You met his gaze, held it, even when his expression darkened by a fraction. You didn’t back down. You’d worked too hard, sacrificed too much, to let one man no matter how many trophies he had make you feel small.

He didn’t reply. Instead, he leaned back against the bench, arms folding across his chest with slow, practiced ease. Like he was done with the conversation. Like you were a fly buzzing in his ear, not worth the swat.

Fine.

You returned to your notes without another word, pretending to study the page even as a lump formed slowly at the base of your throat.

You wouldn’t cry. Not here. Not for him.

You’d learned a long time ago that in high-performance sport, the ice wasn’t always in the therapy rooms. Sometimes, it wore racing suits and sat across from you like you were the one out of place.

The rest of the session was mechanical. You asked questions basic ones, required for your notes. He ignored most of them. Gave one-word answers when silence no longer sufficed. When you gently adjusted the Normatec sleeves on his calves, he shifted away like your touch was something unwelcome, a necessary evil he had to endure.

You thought maybe the first week had been the worst, when he’d barely acknowledged you, when his eyes would scan the room and deliberately skip over where you stood.

But this was worse.

Now he saw you and still treated you like nothing.

The session ended with no goodbye. No eye contact. Just the quiet sound of a zipper as he pulled his hoodie over his head, grabbed his phone, and walked out like you hadn’t just been in the same room for forty-five minutes.

The door clicked shut behind him.

You stayed where you were for a moment, standing in the middle of the room, arms limp at your sides. Then, slowly, you knelt down, packed away the Normatecs, disinfected the table he’d barely touched, and made quick, efficient notes in his recovery log.

He was gone five minutes before the debrief even ended. You didn’t need to ask why. You’d stopped asking questions you knew he wouldn’t answer.

The ache in your chest was familiar now. Low-grade and dull, like an old bruise still tender if pressed too hard.

But you didn’t press it.

You stood, squared your shoulders, and rolled your tension out of your neck like you’d instructed a thousand others to do.

You weren’t here to make friends. You weren’t here to be liked.

You were here to do your job. And whether Lewis Hamilton wanted to acknowledge it or not, you were damn good at it.

“Hey.”

The voice startled you from your concentration, slicing cleanly through the silence. You looked up from your tablet, where notes about hydration levels and muscle fatigue blinked softly on the screen. Marc, one of the performance engineers, was leaning through the side door of the motorhome, his expression somewhere between teasing and concerned.

“He, uh…didn’t throw anything at you today, right?” he asked, one brow raised.

You gave a quiet laugh, though it didn’t quite reach your eyes. “No flying water bottles. Just the usual soul-crushing silence.”

Marc stepped in fully, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft click. He tossed you a protein bar, and you caught it out of reflex. “You holding up?”

You nodded; the smile you gave him automatic but grateful. “Trying,” you admitted.

He studied you for a moment, then sat down on the edge of the massage table, the one Lewis hadn’t touched today. Or yesterday. Or, if you were being honest, much at all this week.

You’d gotten used to this people stopping by to check on you when they thought no one else was watching. Little signs of solidarity. A spare espresso left on your station with no name attached. A folded towel you hadn’t placed there. A toolbox casually moved closer to block Lewis’s line of sight whenever his glares got particularly cutting.

Even Toto had surprised you once during a track walk. He’d murmured a soft “Hang in there” as he passed by, the weight of his hand on your shoulder more grounding than you expected. It wasn’t pity not exactly. It was more like shared understanding. Everyone here had felt the sting of Lewis’s coldness at one point or another. The difference was that you were now expected to survive it day after day, from a front-row seat.

Marc unwrapped his protein bar, chewing thoughtfully as he leaned forward. “You coming to the team dinner tonight?”

You shook your head. “Still have to finish reports. Adjust the physio plan for Saturday.”

He gave you a pointed look. “You know he’s probably not reading those, right?”

“Doesn’t matter,” you said, voice quiet but firm. “They’re still my responsibility.”

Marc exhaled slowly through his nose, then nodded like that answer was better than anything he could’ve come up with. “If you change your mind, we’ll save you a seat.”

You offered him a small smile, then returned to your notes. He left without another word, the silence resettling around you like a heavy curtain.

Hours passed. The paddock emptied in waves, the once-busy energy fading until all that was left was the occasional creak of a door, the buzz of a security golf cart outside. You stayed. Of course you did.

You sat cross-legged on the floor, a resistance band looped around your feet as you stretched absently, reviewing your schedule on your tablet. The only light came from the hallway, casting a soft golden glow across the otherwise darkened room. There was a stillness now that felt sacred this was the time you usually got the most done, when you didn’t have to brace yourself for the way Lewis would walk past you like you didn’t exist.

Until the door opened.

You startled. Just slightly. Enough that your body tensed before you even looked up.

Lewis.

He stepped inside slowly, hoodie up, hands buried deep in his pockets. His eyes landed on you immediately. You couldn’t read the expression in them only that he hadn’t expected you to be here. Then again, you hadn’t expected him either.

“I thought you left,” you said, voice cautious but neutral.

His gaze moved over you quickly - your posture, the tablet on your lap, the stack of charts on the bench. Then back to your face.

“Could say the same to you,” he replied, flatly.

You started to rise, more out of instinct than necessity, but he waved a hand. Not rude. Just dismissive. Like he couldn’t be bothered with the formalities.

“You don’t have to. I’m just grabbing something.”

He disappeared into the side room. You heard a few soft zippers, the rustle of gear bags. Silence again. Then, unexpectedly, his voice drifted back.

“You shouldn’t work so late.”

You froze.

It wasn’t just the words. It was how he said them.

Not sharp. Not cold. Just quiet. Measured. Almost human.

You blinked, unsure how to respond. “Neither should you,” you said finally, your voice steady but soft.

He emerged a moment later with a folded hoodie and a half-eaten protein bar in hand. He paused in the doorway, eyes on you again.

“You do all this for every athlete you work with?” he asked suddenly.

You tilted your head, unsure if this was sarcasm or something else. “All what?”

He gestured vaguely to the clipboard, the notes, the tracking charts on the wall, the pre-race hydration metrics outlined in neat, colour-coded blocks.

“This level of detail.”

You hesitated, then shrugged. “You’re not just any athlete.”

That made him blink. And for a second just a second something flickered behind his eyes. Not softness, exactly. But a shift. A flicker of recognition.

You stood then, brushing off your track pants, already moving to pack up. “Anyway. I’ll be out of your space in a minute.”

He didn’t move. Just stood there, watching you. Not with the disinterest you were used to. This was different. His gaze wasn’t ice. It was flint. Something waiting to be struck.

“You’re not trying to replace her.”

The words came low. Blunt.

You looked up, startled. “Angela?”

He nodded once.

“I’m not,” you said honestly. “I couldn’t. I wouldn’t try to. I’m just trying to do the job I was hired to do.”

There was a long pause. A breath caught somewhere between you.

“I didn’t want anyone new,” he murmured. It wasn’t defensive. It wasn’t even angry. It was tired. Honest.

“I know,” you replied gently.

Your words seemed to land. His jaw flexed once, like he was working through the effort of keeping the rest inside. He looked down at the floor. Then back at you.

“You don’t have to stay,” he said again, but softer this time. Almost like he was giving you a way out.

“If this isn’t worth it.”

You stared at him. Really stared.

“I don’t quit,” you said quietly.

For a beat, nothing. Then barely his lips twitched. Not a smile. But a suggestion of one. A ghost of something real.

He nodded, once. Then turned and left without another word, the door clicking shut behind him.

You stood alone in the dim light, pulse thudding in your ears, the silence he left behind now somehow louder than it had been before.

And for the first time in weeks, it didn’t feel so empty.

It felt like the beginning of something shifting.

Maybe not warmth.

But something.

Something real. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix, Saturday

Rain slicked the paddock, soaking into every crevice of the asphalt and turning the air into a clinging, grey fog. It wasn’t heavy rain more of a misty drizzle that fell steadily, like the world itself was holding its breath. The sky hung low, dull and oppressive, as if weighed down by tension. You tugged the hood of your team-issued rain jacket tighter around your face, fingers curled into the sleeves as you kept your eyes down and feet quick. The occasional spray from a passing cart splattered against your ankles, and you grimaced, but didn’t stop.

Qualifying had ended just fifteen minutes ago.

P8.

Not terrible. But not what anyone wanted. Not what he wanted.

The Mercedes garage had been a storm of movement by engineers huddled in muttering groups, mechanics shaking their heads as they toweled off tools, data feeds blinking with too many red sectors. You hadn’t spoken to Lewis afterward. You hadn’t needed to. The way he stalked out of the car, jaw clenched so tight you were certain it would crack, had been loud enough.

Still, you moved through the paddock as you always did quiet, efficient, invisible when needed, but never far. You knew where he’d be: in debrief. And you knew where you needed to be after that.

Inside the Mercedes motorhome, the air was warmer, drier, but no less tense. The murmur of voices in the meeting room filtered faintly through the wall, but you stayed where you always did just outside the door. Clipboard in hand. Post-qualifying protocol ready. Notes committed to memory. You weren’t officially inside those briefings yet. You hadn’t earned that access. But you were close enough to be called on at a moment’s notice. Close enough to hear when the tone of the voices shifted. Close enough to feel the emotional fallout before it even hit.

He hadn’t spoken to you since that night.

The one in the motorhome. The strange, silent exchange lit only by hallway light and unfinished sentences. He hadn’t acknowledged it, hadn’t brought it up but you noticed the difference. Subtle, almost imperceptible. His silences had softened. He no longer recoiled from touch. When you adjusted the tightness of the wraps around his wrist, he didn’t pull back. When you altered his hydration balance by a percentage point, he drank it anyway. He didn’t say thank you.

But he didn’t resist anymore.

It was something.

The door to the meeting room swung open twenty minutes later.

He walked out first fast, purposeful, shoulders squared. His race suit hung open around his waist, the fireproofs beneath it clinging to his damp skin. His face was a careful mask, lips pressed in a firm line, eyes like stone. You didn’t speak. You didn’t need to. You simply fell into step beside him, matching his stride, clipboard held to your chest.

He didn’t tell you to come with him.

But he didn’t tell you to leave, either.

He led you to the private treatment room near the back of the motorhome, the one reserved for cooldowns, muscle work, or the kind of days where nothing else helped. You closed the door gently behind you as he dropped down onto the padded bench, exhaling hard through his nose.

He didn’t speak, so you did.

“You didn’t do anything wrong,” you said softly, knowing how little comfort that kind of truth offered on days like this.

He laughed, short and sharp, but there was no humour in it. “Tell that to the car.”

You didn’t reply. Instead, you let the silence stretch for a few seconds enough to let him breathe, to let the frustration settle without feeding it.

“Take your shirt off,” you said finally, voice calm, clinical.

His head turned, just slightly. Eyes flicked to you. It wasn’t defiant more surprised. As if for the first time, he actually heard you. Not the instruction. The voice beneath it.

But he didn’t argue. He pulled the damp black shirt over his head in one swift motion and tossed it onto the chair beside him. You moved to your station, pulling a small bottle of oil and a warm compress from the drawer, laying out towels with quiet efficiency.

You didn’t let your eyes linger. Not on the ink that curved over the strong line of his shoulders. Not on the flex of muscle across his back or the faint trail of moisture that ran along the side of his neck. You’d worked with world-class athletes for years. You’d seen better physiques. Probably. Maybe.

But it had never felt like this before.

You pressed your thumb into his left shoulder blade, slowly working the knot you already knew would be there. He tensed at first habitual but gradually relaxed into the pressure.

“Tight,” you murmured under your breath. “You’re overcompensating on the left side again.”

“Didn’t feel it on the sim.”

“It’s not the sim,” you replied, matter of fact.

His lips quirked faintly not quite a smile, more like reluctant agreement.

You worked in silence. Long, slow strokes. Careful attention. He wasn’t the kind of man who responded to chatter in moments like this. You could feel his breathing begin to slow as your thumb moved in deliberate circles beneath his shoulder blade, coaxing the strain away.

After a while, he exhaled low, unguarded.

“That bad?” you asked quietly.

“I’ve had worse.”

“You shouldn’t have to.”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. Too honest. Too exposed.

And yet…he didn’t pull away.

He stilled. Then, slowly, his voice found you again. “You take this job very seriously.”

You paused, letting your hands still against his skin. “I take you seriously.”

There was a silence then. A heavier one. Not uncomfortable just charged. His head turned slightly, and you felt his gaze settle on you over his shoulder.

“Why?” he asked. Soft. Sincere. Not a challenge. Just a question from a man who’d stopped expecting genuine answers.

You stepped back, wiping your hands on a towel, heart thudding once in your chest like a warning. You didn’t dodge the question.

“Because you don’t need someone to worship you, Lewis. You need someone to take care of you. And I’m good at that. Whether or not you ever thank me for it.”

His Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed. His jaw twitched unreadable expression flickering across his face like static. Something passed between you in that second. An understanding, maybe. Or the beginning of one.

The silence stretched again.

Then his radio pinged from the corner of the room. A notification. Reality calling him back.

And just like that, the walls came up again.

He moved quickly, standing and reaching for his shirt. You saw the armour slip back into place: the focus, the distance, the self-protection he wore like second skin.

“Race is tomorrow,” he said, voice low, already slipping back into routine.

You nodded. “You’ll need the TENS on your calf tonight. Ten minutes. I’ll set it up in your suite.”

He paused, then nodded. Just once. Small. But real.

And as he left the room, you didn’t follow right away. You stood still for a moment, hands still damp, heart still racing.

Something was shifting.

And this time, it felt like he’d noticed it too. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Emilia-Romagna Grand Prix — Saturday Night

The storm rolled in harder.

By the time you stepped out of the hospitality suite, the mist from earlier had turned into a proper downpour. Cold sheets of rain danced across the emptying paddock, bouncing off slick asphalt, bouncing off puddles that had swelled in uneven places. Lightning flashed somewhere beyond the hills, illuminating the track for a heartbeat before the world slipped back into wet, colourless grey.

You pulled your rain jacket tighter and tucked your clipboard under your arm, head down, boots splashing as you made your way back toward the team’s garage annex. The air felt heavier now—not just with weather, but with something more personal, more charged.

You hadn’t been able to shake the moment from earlier. The way Lewis had looked at you, voice stripped bare when he asked why you cared. The way he’d listened really listened when you told him the truth.

You were halfway across the compound when your earpiece crackled.

Static, then your name. Then, “Lewis had a fall. It’s minor. Nothing broken. But…he slipped on the paddock stairs. We need you.”

You didn’t ask questions. Just turned on your heel and started moving faster.

The compound near the entrance was quieter now, most media cleared out, crews huddled indoors. A few security guards stood at the perimeter; shoulders hunched against the storm. You moved past them quickly, ducking into the treatment wing Mercedes shared with a few other teams for emergencies.

Inside, the air smelled of antiseptic and rain-soaked fabric. Dim lights flickered overhead. And there he was.

Lewis sat on the edge of the physio bench, one elbow on his thigh, head tilted forward, rain still dripping from the ends of his braids. His fireproofs clung to his legs, soaked and rumpled. One leg was slightly bent at the knee just enough for you to notice the stiffness in how he held it.

His expression was neutral. Blank, almost. But you saw it the tension in his jaw, the clench of his hands.

Not pain.

Pride.

Someone had seen him fall. That was worse.

You didn’t ask if he was okay. He would’ve lied. Instead, you moved forward and crouched in front of him, rainwater still beading on your sleeves.

“Let me see,” you said, your voice calm, careful.

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t pull away either.

Gently, you rolled up the bottom of his compression leggings, slow enough not to jostle the muscle. The lighting wasn’t great, but you could already see it a faint swell above the knee, the beginnings of a bruise blooming violet and red along the outside of the joint. Not terrible. But enough.

You palpated the area with trained fingers, watching his face more than his leg. He flinched only once.

“No major swelling. No tear,” you murmured. “But it’s a strain. Keep pushing and it’ll get worse.”

He exhaled through his nose, silent again.

“I can tape it,” you offered, reaching for your kit behind you.

He hesitated. You could feel it a flicker of resistance, not to you, but to the idea of needing help. Of being seen needing help.

“Lewis.” You met his eyes this time, tone soft but insistent. “If you limp during the cooldown lap tomorrow, every camera on the track will catch it. Every headline will be about that, not your race. Let me help.”

A pause. The kind that hung in the air like a balancing scale.

Then, finally he nodded. Just once. But it was enough.

You set to work quickly, hands skilled and precise. The room fell into silence, filled only with the sound of rain thudding against the windows and the soft rip of kinesiology tape. Your fingers moved over the muscle with practiced ease, wrapping the joint just snug enough to offer support without restricting motion.

The air between you felt different now.

Not charged with discomfort or avoidance.

Open.

Tentative, real.

He wasn’t resisting. He wasn’t pulling away. And for someone like him, who held his world so close to his chest, that was massive.

When you finished, you smoothed the last strip into place and sat back on your heels.

“All done,” you said gently, wiping your hands on a towel. “Try standing.”

He did, slowly testing the leg, shifting his weight. His face stayed composed, but you could tell he was impressed. Or maybe relieved.

Then he looked at you. Really looked at you. For a long moment, he just stood there, eyes searching yours as if trying to find the edges of whatever it was, he’d started to feel earlier.

“You’re not what I expected,” he said at last, voice low.

You blinked, caught off guard by the sudden shift from silence to honesty.

“In a good way?” you asked, not teasing more cautious.

He gave a half smile, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes but felt more real than anything you’d seen from him in days.

“I don’t know yet,” he said softly.

You returned the smile, just faintly. “Fair enough.”

There was a pause. He turned as if to grab his hoodie from the bench, but then he stopped. The weight of something unsaid pulled him back.

“I’m signing with Ferrari next year,” he said, suddenly, like he needed to get it out before the moment passed.

You froze.

Not just at what he said but at the way he said it. Quiet. Intimate. Like a confession. You hadn’t heard it from the media. No one had. And he was telling you.

Your voice caught in your throat.

“Will you be with me at Ferrari?” he asked, eyes never leaving yours.

You stared at him, blinking once. Twice.

“You haven’t told anyone else,” you whispered, more to yourself than him.

“No.” He said it like a promise. “Not yet.”

You swallowed. Your hands felt strangely cold. “Am I…am I even allowed to be?”

He hesitated then stepped closer. Not much. Just an inch. But it felt like a mile.

“I want you there.”

Your chest tightened. You didn’t know what to say at first. The weight of that sentence landed somewhere deeper than you were prepared for. You’d spent so long trying to do this job perfectly, quietly, without asking for anything back. And now he was offering something you hadn’t dared hope for.

He wanted you.

Not just for a treatment. Not just for race prep. He wanted you.

You nodded slowly. The words stuck behind your teeth, thick with emotion. “Okay,” you said finally, voice barely above a whisper. “Then I’ll be there.”

His eyes softened. Just slightly. But enough.

And outside, the storm kept raging. But in here in this tiny room filled with rain light and tape and unsaid things a different kind of thunder passed between you.

One that felt like the beginning of something. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2024 Last race of the season Miami Grand Prix – Sunday Night. Mercedes Motorhome – Final Debrief

The clinking of champagne flutes echoed in the corridor, muffled behind closed doors. Monaco glittered outside yachts bobbing gently in the harbour, floodlights painting gold across wet pavement. But inside the Mercedes motorhome, everything felt like it was standing still.

You stood next to Lewis, just outside the debrief room, watching him quietly as the team finished their final post-race rundown. He hadn’t said much since crossing the line today - P5 after a long, bruising race. Not the send-off he’d wanted. But still, there was a calm in him. A quiet acceptance.

He glanced over at you now, his lips twitching into something soft. “Feels weird,” he said.

You nodded. “End of an era.”

“Twelve years,” he murmured, running a hand over his jaw. “Twelve years in silver and black.”

You looked at the logo on his race suit black now, but the silver star still prominent on his chest.

“Still suits you,” you said gently.

He smiled, but it didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Not for much longer.”

And as if on cue, the buzz started.

Your phone lit up in your pocket. Then his. Then Toto’s voice called from inside the room—“It’s out.”

The press embargo had lifted. The announcement was live.

Lewis Hamilton to join Scuderia Ferrari in 2025.

Through the glass wall, you could already see the team scrolling through their phones, a few shoulders stiffening, some murmuring in surprise even though most of them had known. Still, seeing it official made it real.

Lewis exhaled. Not nervous. Just…letting go.

You stepped a little closer. Close enough that he could feel your presence behind him, even if you didn’t touch.

“They’re going to spin it,” he said, quietly. “They always do.”

“Let them,” you said. “You know why you’re doing this. And you’re not doing it alone.”

He turned to you then, fully, eyes meeting yours with something that felt like gratitude and something else something heavier.

“No,” he said. “I’m not.”

The motorhome around you was moving now people preparing for the inevitable media storm, public statements, clipped interviews. But for a second, in the eye of it all, it was just the two of you.

“You ready to wear red?” he asked.

You gave a small smile, heartbeat steady. “Only if you are.” ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

2025 Preseason – Maranello, Italy

Three weeks until the first race

The first thing you noticed about Maranello was the quiet.

Not silence, exactly there were always distant echoes of movement, clipped Italian voices passing through corridors, the whir of machines in wind tunnels deeper within the complex. But compared to Brackley, this place felt almost reverent. The air was still, like it was listening. Watching. Remembering.

There was history in the walls here. Decades of it. You felt it in the smooth tiles under your boots, in the red banners lining the hallways, in the framed photos of champions and legends — Lauda, Schumacher, Ascari all staring out with the kind of intensity that made you unconsciously square your shoulders as you passed. You weren’t just working for a team anymore. You were stepping into a legacy.

You checked your new badge again, still not quite used to the prancing horse printed in gold beside your name.

Ferrari – Physiotherapist.

It still felt like something out of someone else’s story. But the weight of the lanyard was real around your neck, and so were your footsteps as you turned the corner into the gym.

Lewis was already there.

He stood alone in the centre of the room, red Ferrari training gear clinging to his frame, his back glistening faintly with sweat under the overhead lights. His braids were tied back tight, focused entirely on the punching bag in front of him. Left. Right. Right again. Controlled, powerful strikes. Not angry precise. Calculated. A rhythm more than a release.

He didn’t turn when you stepped in, but his voice met you anyway.

“About time.”

You let out a small, amused breath. “They made me sign five NDAs just to walk past reception.”

That got the barest twitch of his mouth not quite a smile, but not nothing. “Welcome to Ferrari.”

You moved a little closer, your eyes scanning the unfamiliar space. Everything gleamed. The weights, the equipment, even the water bottles looked engineered to impress.

“I still feel like I’ve broken into a museum,” you murmured.

He stepped back from the bag and reached for a towel. “It’s sacred ground.”

“And you’re the new priest?” you asked, eyebrows raised.

He threw a look over his shoulder, equal parts dry and self-aware. “I’m the experiment.”

You set your bag down near the bench, catching the shift in his posture not defensive, just watchful. There was no mistaking the difference in him since last season. He still moved like a fighter, still carried himself like someone who had nothing to prove and everything to protect. But there was a stillness in him now. A quietness that hadn’t been there before.

“So then,” you said, tone light but firm, “let’s make sure you don’t combust under the microscope.”

This time, when he sat, he didn’t hesitate as you stepped in front of him, hands already moving through your practiced checks. His eyes found yours not guarded, but deliberate. As if he wanted you to see the weight he was carrying. Not just from the physical training, but from everything else. The pressure. The shift. The risk.

“You stayed,” he said simply, voice low.

You blinked. “You asked me to.”

“That doesn’t mean much in this business.”

You guided his arm through the first shoulder stretch, fingers brushing the inside of his wrist, where his pulse beat steady and strong. “I’m not in this for the business.”

His gaze didn’t waver. “Neither am I. Not anymore.”

There was something in his voice not bitterness. More like exhaustion. The kind that sinks into your bones after years of chasing ghosts through podiums, through airports, through interview rooms where every word gets picked apart by strangers who think they know you.

“You still love it, though,” you asked, quiet. “Don’t you?”

He hesitated, lips parting just slightly. Then he exhaled through his nose, slow.

“I don’t know. I’m trying to remember.”

Your hands stilled on his forearm, eyes meeting his. There wasn’t anything performative in the moment no drama, no weighty declarations. Just honesty. Rare and raw.

Outside the gym window, you could see the edge of the track. Empty now, slick from a light drizzle, but waiting. In just under three weeks, it would roar to life again new season, new car, new team colours. And Lewis would be at the centre of it all. The man in red.

You reached into your kit and pulled out a new mobility band, looping it over your wrist as you refocused.

“We’ll start light today. Test your range of motion, no overload.”

He nodded once. “Lead the way.”

And for the first time since you’d met him all those months ago, back when he barely looked you in the eye unless it was necessary - he followed without hesitation. Without resistance.

He trusted you now.

And as you moved through the stretches, his breath syncing with yours, you felt it. The calm before the storm. The last few quiet moments before everything began again.

Only this time, you were starting together.

A week later

Training in Maranello had settled into its own steady rhythm, a pulse that beat differently from anything you’d known before.

Mornings were for the gym the smell of leather mats, the clinking of weights, the sharp sound of gloves hitting punching bags. Lewis moved through it all with a deliberate intensity, every motion precise and measured, like a man conducting a private ritual. You learned quickly that he didn’t want to be hovered over. Space was his currency. Too close, and he’d shrink inside himself; too far, and he might drift away. The balance was delicate.

Afternoons were spent in the simulator room. The hum of the machines, the glow of screens filled the space. You often sat quietly nearby, not interrupting, letting him immerse himself in every turn, every braking point, every split second that might mean the difference between victory and defeat. When he spoke, it was sparse, clipped a nod, a brief answer. But sometimes, just sometimes, he would glance your way, and you’d catch a fleeting flicker of something like camaraderie.

Evenings belonged to the review sessions. Lights dimmed, the team gathered around monitors replaying laps and telemetry. You watched how Lewis absorbed it all, the tight line of his jaw, the narrowed eyes a fighter learning his battlefield. Your job felt secondary to the mechanics and engineers, but it was no less vital. You knew that without his body, none of the data mattered.

Over the days, you became attuned to the small, unspoken things that grounded him.

The way he liked his towels folded - folded just so, edges crisp and corners sharp. You found yourself arriving before he did, smoothing and folding in silence, a quiet offering to the ritual of his preparation.

The post-ride drink a coconut water blend laced with just the right balance of electrolytes and minerals. It was subtle, but you learned it didn’t upset his stomach the way some recovery drinks did. He never asked for it, but it was always waiting for him, chilled and ready.

You discovered that the TENS unit helped him sleep better when you ran it on his lower back instead of his shoulders, even though he never mentioned it aloud. You just knew the way he shifted, the almost imperceptible sigh as the muscles loosened under the gentle pulses.

He never thanked you. There was no need. His world was built on results, on strength, on silent determination. But you saw it anyway in the smallest cracks of his armour. The way his eyes softened when you handed him the coconut water without a word. The almost imperceptible relaxation in his posture when you massaged the tight knot beneath his shoulder blade. The briefest exhale of relief after a long day.

It wasn’t much, but it was enough.

His guard fell, inch by inch, day by day. Quiet acceptance. Unspoken trust. The kind of trust that isn’t declared but felt, deep beneath the surface.

Then came the night that changed everything again.

It started like any other evening the team wrapping up in the conference room, Lewis retreating to his suite to prepare for tomorrow’s early start. You lingered nearby, tidying the physio room, when a message buzzed on your phone. Lewis needed you.

The details were vague just that he wanted you to come up. Now.

When you entered the room, you found him seated on the edge of the bed, the harsh white overhead light softened by the low glow of the bedside lamp. His eyes, usually so guarded, were wide and raw tired but resolute.

He didn’t say anything at first, just looked at you, really looked, and for a moment, the world outside ceased to exist.

No more pretence. No more walls.

Just the two of you, suspended in the quiet aftermath of a long day, on the cusp of something neither of you could yet name.

That night, something shifted subtle, fragile, but undeniable.

And you knew that whatever came next, you wouldn’t be standing on opposite sides of the glass anymore. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Maranello – Friday Night

It was nearly ten in the evening when you finally finished logging Lewis’s data. The spacious physiotherapy facility was nearly empty, the hum of machines long gone, and the lights dimmed low enough to feel like the day was finally winding down. Your shoulders ached from the constant motion, from holding muscles in place and coaxing bodies back from the edge of exhaustion. You were folding up your clipboard and stacking your tools, the quiet settling in like a gentle shroud.

Just as you were about to grab your bag, a soft, hesitant tapping broke through the stillness tap tap, sharp against the glass of the physio room’s window. You turned and found him there. Lewis. Not the blazing star on the track, not the man chased by lenses and headlines. Just Lewis, wrapped in a loose grey hoodie and worn-in joggers, the edges of his face softened by the dim light. His usual fierce intensity was replaced by something quieter, more vulnerable.

“I owe you dinner.”

You blinked, caught off guard by the suddenness, by the low, almost shy tone. “Sorry?”

“That night in Imola last year ,” he said, stepping in just enough to lean against the doorframe. “You stayed late. Taped me up. No complaints.”

You shrugged, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear. “I was doing my job.”

“But I didn’t say it then. I should have.”

You studied him carefully. The protective wall of armour of steel he’d worn for so long was still there, but thinner now. More fragile. More...transparent, like glass instead of iron.

“Are you actually going to feed me or is this your version of small talk?” you teased, a half-smile tugging at your lips.

That coaxed a real smile from him a rare, easy curve of his mouth that lit up the space between you. “I found a place down the road. No cameras. No chaos.”

You hesitated, weighing the sudden invitation against the exhaustion pooling in your limbs. But only for a second. “Let me grab my jacket.”

Outside, the night air was cool and still, the streets around the Ferrari headquarters quiet under the amber streetlights. The walk to the restaurant was short, the sounds of the town muted except for distant laughter and the soft rustle of leaves in the gentle breeze.

The restaurant was small and intimate, with wooden tables polished smooth and walls lined with faded photographs and old racing memorabilia. The low lighting cast warm shadows, and the rich smells of basil, garlic, and slow-cooked tomato sauce wrapped around you like a comforting blanket.

Lewis didn’t put on a show. He didn’t act like Lewis Hamilton, global icon. He simply pulled out your chair with a quiet dignity, sat with a relaxed posture that surprised you, and asked what you liked without pretence or celebrity.

You ordered pasta, something simple but full of flavour, and a glass of red wine that stained the rim of your glass a deep garnet. He laughed once, low and genuine, when your fork clinked awkwardly against the wine glass as you tried to pour a delicate sip with too much enthusiasm.

Halfway through the meal, as the conversation meandered from mundane topics favourite movies, childhood memories to more personal territory, you looked at him. Really looked. The glare of competition and the weight of expectations had faded from his eyes. What remained was something rare and unguarded.

“You’re different here,” you said softly, voice barely above the hum of conversation around you.

He tilted his head, a small smile playing on his lips. “Good different?”

“Honest.”

Lewis rested his forearms on the table, his fingers idly brushing the curve of his glass as if anchoring himself to the moment. “It’s easier when I’m not being chased.”

“You’re still being watched,” you reminded him gently.

He gave a small shrug, almost imperceptible. “Not by you.”

You didn’t answer right away. Instead, you let the silence stretch between you a quiet understanding that needed no words.

“You want someone to see you,” you said after a moment, “not just watch you.”

His jaw tensed, the muscles tightening like a breath held too long. But he didn’t deny it. Instead, he looked at you really looked like he was trying to figure out how he hadn’t noticed you sooner. Like you were the missing piece in a puzzle he thought he had solved long ago.

And maybe, just maybe, he was. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Late Winter, Barcelona Test Week

The Ferrari motorhome buzzed quietly with the calm energy of a team preparing for battle. Warm light spilled from overhead panels, soft conversations murmured around the hospitality area, and the occasional clink of cutlery echoed faintly through the air. Outside, the cool Catalan breeze whispered against the glass walls, but inside, the atmosphere was insulated — a cocoon of focus and quiet determination.

You were tucked away in the corner of the physio room, methodically organising a fresh batch of resistance bands. The subtle scent of leather and antiseptic mingled in the air, familiar and oddly comforting. Your hands worked with practiced ease, but your attention was partially drawn to Lewis, sprawled on the treatment table like it was a throne rather than a place of rehab.

He looked subdued today not withdrawn or tense, just internal, like the world was weighing heavily behind those calm eyes. He scrolled through telemetry data on his iPad, his fingers flicking through stats and lap times, but you could tell his mind was elsewhere.

“Shoulders tight again?” you asked softly, without looking up.

“Mmh,” he hummed in response, a low sound of distraction. “Didn’t sleep.”

You glanced over your shoulder, curiosity mingling with concern. “The new mattress not working?”

He shrugged, eyes flickering to the ceiling as if searching for answers there. “My brain’s loud.”

Crossing the room with your clipboard in hand, you stopped beside him. The warmth of the motorhome wrapped around you both, the faint hum of the air conditioning mingling with distant voices. “Want me to run the TENS unit?” you offered gently.

There was a long pause. No answer came at first, just the soft flicker of the screen and his shallow breaths. Then, quietly, almost like a request you hadn’t expected, he said, “Only if you’ll stay while it runs.”

Your heart caught. Lewis never asked for anything like that. Usually, he tolerated you, allowed your presence as a necessary part of his routine. But this was different. This was an invitation.

You set the clipboard down carefully, your fingers brushing the surface as you leaned in. “Of course.”

You attached the electrodes to his upper back with practiced precision. As soon as the current hummed to life, Lewis exhaled not a dramatic release, but a subtle loosening of tension that you hadn’t realised was coiled so tightly beneath his skin. Your fingers adjusted the settings, the touch gentle and sure, moving over his skin without the flinch or pull of resistance you’d seen in the early weeks. This was progress.

“Tell me what your brain’s saying,” you murmured, voice low enough that it felt like a secret meant only for him.

He tilted his head toward you, eyes half-lidded, soft and searching. “You really want to know?”

“I wouldn’t ask otherwise.”

There was silence, but it wasn’t shutting you out. It was a pause, a moment spent gathering the right words from a place that rarely opened so fully.

“I’m starting over,” he said finally, voice quiet but steady. “Again. Thirty-nine years old, in red. Everyone expects me to prove I didn’t make a mistake.”

You could feel the weight in his words not just the physical strain, but the mental and emotional pressure that came with changing teams, starting fresh under the unforgiving gaze of the racing world.

“I know I can still do this,” he added, voice tightening just slightly. “But I don’t know if they’ll let me.”

You looked at him, steady and certain. “You’re not here to ask permission.” Your tone was soft, but there was steel beneath it. “You’re here to win. They’ll catch up or they’ll fall behind.”

His gaze met yours again not fragile anymore, but tender. Vulnerable, but grounded.

“You always say the right thing,” he said, lips twitching into something like a smile.

“I say what I mean,” you replied, matching his quiet sincerity.

Lewis’s smile grew a little, the first true curve of warmth you’d seen in days. You didn’t say it aloud, but it was clear: since the move to Ferrari, it wasn’t just his muscles that had softened under your care. It was the walls he’d built around himself.

And maybe, just maybe, he was starting to see you not as a replacement, but as someone who genuinely cared.

The next afternoon, the physio room was quiet except for the soft hum of equipment and distant footsteps outside. You were focused on your clipboard, ticking off items from your checklist when Lewis appeared in the doorway.

He held out a coffee cup to you your name scrawled messily on the side. Almond milk, one sugar, and a light dusting of cinnamon crowned the foam exactly as you liked it.

You blinked, caught off guard. This was the first time he’d ever brought you anything like this.

He just shook his head, a small shrug that said, no need to make a fuss, without saying a word.

You tried to keep your expression neutral, tried not to smile. But the warmth in your chest betrayed you, and the corners of your mouth lifted before you could stop them.

Over the next few days, this simple gesture became a quiet ritual. Lewis began showing up without being asked, sometimes with your favourite coffee or a carefully brewed tea in hand. He seemed to know exactly when you needed a pick-me-up before exhaustion could settle in or frustration rise.

You started finding small notes tucked between your equipment or slipped inside your notebook. Some were sweet and sincere, little messages of gratitude written in his usual messy, hurried handwriting - “Thanks for having my back” or “Can’t do this without you.” Others were playful, teasing words that made you laugh softly, the kind of laughter that lingered long after he’d left the room - “Try not to burn down the physio room today, yeah?”

Bit by bit, Lewis peeled back the layers he usually kept so well hidden. You saw flashes of the man behind the driver the quiet humour, the subtle kindness, the moments of doubt and vulnerability he rarely let anyone witness.

And in the spaces between those gestures and glances, something began to grow.

It was slow and subtle, almost imperceptible at first, like the first hint of spring stirring beneath winter’s grip.

Something unspoken, fragile a connection weaving itself quietly between two people learning to trust. ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊ ⊹ ˑ ִ ֶ 𓂃࣪𓏲ᥫ᭡ ₊

Barcelona – Final Day of Testing

The paddock outside was a chaotic symphony of noise engineers darting between trailers with purposeful urgency, mechanics shouting instructions over the relentless hum of engines winding down, camera crews scrambling to catch their last moments of the week. The air buzzed with adrenaline and exhaustion, punctuated by the sharp scent of burnt rubber and fuel.

But the moment you stepped into Lewis’s private motorhome, the world outside seemed to dissolve completely. The warm, muted light inside wrapped around you like a soft blanket, contrasting the frenetic energy just beyond the door. The faint scent of eucalyptus from the diffuser mingled with the lingering musk of sweat and leather, grounding the space in an intimate, familiar cocoon.

You pressed your hands gently along his back, feeling the taut muscles beneath your fingertips tense and then slowly begin to loosen under your touch. The warmth radiating from his skin was steady, steady enough to calm the knot of adrenaline still pulsing through your own veins.

There was an unspoken understanding in the air between you no need for words. He wasn’t Lewis Hamilton here, the untouchable, celebrated champion. He was simply Lewis, the man who had, bit by bit, allowed you into his carefully guarded world, even if only a little.

When you finished, you took a step back, wiping your hands on the towel. You glanced up at him, silently waiting for a response. But instead of breaking the quiet with words, he rose slowly, moving toward you with a deliberate calmness that made your heart beat a little faster.

The space between you shrank in an instant, the distance closing until you could feel the warmth of his breath brush against your skin. You looked up at him, your breath catching somewhere between surprise and anticipation. His eyes locked onto yours dark, unreadable pools that seemed to hold a thousand unspoken emotions.

Almost instinctively, his hand rose, fingers trembling just slightly as they tucked a stray strand of hair behind your ear. His touch was feather-light, the soft brush of his skin against your cheek sending a quiet thrill through you.

You stood frozen, heart racing, as his fingers lingered warm and gentle softer than anything you’d expected from the fiercely driven man you knew. Time seemed to slow, compressing the world around you into a small, fragile bubble where nothing else existed but the two of you.

His eyes searched yours, as if trying to decipher every hidden feeling you hadn’t dared voice. His breath was steady but measured, betraying a subtle tension beneath the surface like he was waging an internal battle, the same storm you both seemed to be navigating in your own ways.

The distant drone of engines and chatter outside faded into white noise, replaced by the soft rhythm of your pulse pounding in your ears.

“Thank you” His voice was a low whisper, heavy with meaning, thick with vulnerability that made your chest tighten in a way you hadn’t expected.

His gaze softened further, shedding the public persona like a worn coat. This was the part of him few ever glimpsed—the Lewis behind the driver’s helmet the man who had slowly quietly let you in.

He took a hesitant step closer, the warmth of his body nearly merging with yours. You could feel the magnetic pull, but this time, the air between you wasn’t charged with tension or uncertainty. It was calm, peaceful, and filled with something unspoken but deeply understood a quiet connection forged through trust.

“I’m not always this...asshole of a person,” he admitted, voice rough with self-awareness. “I’m sorry I pushed you away when you were just trying to do your job.”

He paused, searching your face as if weighing how much of himself he could afford to reveal. “I don’t know how to do this.”

You shook your head gently, stepping just enough closer to close the gap between uncertainty and possibility.

“You don’t have to know,” you said softly, your hand rising to rest over his chest, feeling the steady beat of his heart beneath your palm. “I’m here. As your physiotherapist. And, if you want, something more.”

For a moment, his eyes flickered with an emotion you couldn’t quite name a complex mix of gratitude, longing, and something like fear.

Then, without hesitation, he closed the space between you.

His lips met yours in a tentative kiss, soft and questioning at first, as if he was testing the reality of the moment, unsure if it was something he deserved or even wanted to believe in.

But when you leaned in, matching his pace, the kiss deepened an intimate exchange that left you breathless. His hands found your waist, pulling you closer, the heat of his body seeping into yours, grounding you in the here and now.

His lips were tender, deliberate, as though every brush and press was trying to say what words could not. You felt it in the gentle tracing of his fingers along your back, in the way his entire being seemed to magnetically draw yours nearer.

When you finally pulled away, breath shallow and heart pounding, a quiet smile curved his lips—soft, genuine, far from the bravado he wore like a second skin.

His eyes, usually guarded and inscrutable, held something raw and real something he’d been hiding for too long.

“Does that feel real enough?” he teased, voice low but laced with warmth, the familiar glint of humour returning to his gaze.

You smiled back, fingertips still brushing lightly over the collar of his shirt, anchoring yourself in this moment of fragile clarity.

“More real than anything,” you whispered.

And in that quiet, shared space inside his motorhome, surrounded by the fading sounds of a racing world, you both knew this was only the beginning -

Of something neither of you could yet name, but both were ready to face.

Because you weren’t just his physiotherapist anymore.

And he wasn’t just the superstar you worked for.

You were something new. Something uncertain, but fiercely alive.

And somehow, in that moment, it already felt like home.

[dandelionsresilience]

Dandelion News - February 22-28

Like these weekly compilations? Tip me at $kaybarr1735 or check out my Dandelion Doodles! (This month’s doodles will be a little delayed since I wasn’t able to work on them throughout the month)

1. City trees absorb much more carbon than expected

“[A new measurement technique shows that trees in LA absorb] up to 60% of daytime CO₂ emissions from fossil fuel combustion in spring and summer[….] Beyond offering shade and aesthetic value, these trees act as silent workhorses in the city’s climate resilience strategy[….]”

2. #AltGov: the secret network of federal workers resisting Doge from the inside

“Government employees fight the Trump administration’s chaos by organizing and publishing information on Bluesky[…. A group of government employees are] banding together to “expose harmful policies, defend public institutions and equip citizens with tools to push back against authoritarianism[….]””

3. An Ecuadorian hotspot shows how forests can claw back from destruction

“A December 2024 study described the recovery of ground birds and mammals like ocelots, and found their diversity and biomass in secondary forests was similar to those in old-growth forests after just 20 years. [… Some taxa recover] “earlier, some are later, but they all show a tendency to recover.””

4. Over 80 House Democrats demand Trump rescind gender-affirming care ban: 'We want trans kids to live'

“[89 House Democrats signed a letter stating,] "Trans young people, their parents and their doctors should be the ones making their health care decisions. No one should need to ask the President’s permission to access life-saving, evidence-based health care." "As Members of Congress, we stand united with trans young people and their families.”“

5. Boosting seafood production while protecting biodiversity

“A new study suggests that farming seafood from the ocean – known as mariculture – could be expanded to feed more people while reducing harm to marine biodiversity at the same time. […] “[… I]t’s not a foregone conclusion that the expansion of an industry is always going to have a proportionally negative impact on the environment[….]””

6. U.S. will spend up to $1 billion to combat bird flu, USDA secretary says

“The USDA will spend up to $500 million to provide free biosecurity audits to farms and $400 million to increase payment rates to farmers who need to kill their chickens due to bird flu[….] The USDA is exploring vaccines for chickens but is not yet authorizing their use[….]”

7. An Innovative Program Supporting the Protection of Irreplaceable Saline Lakes

“[… T]he program aims to provide comprehensive data on water availability and lake health, develop strategies to monitor and assess critical ecosystems, and identify knowledge gaps to guide future research and resource management.”

8. EU to unveil ​‘Clean Industrial Deal’ to cut CO2, boost energy security

“The bold plan aims to revitalize and decarbonize heavy industry, reduce reliance on gas, and make energy cheaper, cleaner, and more secure. […] By July, the EU said it will ​“simplify state aid rules” to ​“accelerate the roll-out of clean energy, deploy industrial decarbonisation and ensure sufficient capacity of clean-tech manufacturing” on the continent.”

9. Oyster Restoration Investments Net Positive Returns for Economy and Environment

“Researchers expect the restored oyster reefs to produce $38 million in ecosystem benefits through 2048. “This network protects nearly 350 million oysters[….]” [NOAA provided] $14.9 million to expand the sanctuary network to 500 acres by 2026 […] through the Bipartisan Infrastructure Law.”

10. Nations back $200 billion-a-year plan to reverse nature losses

“More than 140 countries adopted a strategy to mobilize hundreds of billions of dollars a year to help reverse dramatic losses in biodiversity[….] A finance strategy adopted to applause and tears from delegates, underpins "our collective capacity to sustain life on this planet," said Susana Muhamad[….]”

February 15-21 news here | (all credit for images and written material can be found at the source linked; I don’t claim credit for anything but curating.)

[screentones-webcomicresources]

There are many web hosting companies to choose from if you're taking the plunge into making your own website with a comic content management system (CMS) like ComicControl or Grawlix, a Wordpress comic theme like Toocheke or ComicPress, or a HTML template to cut/paste code like Rarebit. While these solutions are generally free, finding a home for them is... generally not. It can be hard to choose what's best for your webcomic AND your budget!

We took a look at a few of the top hosting services used by webcomics creators using webcomic CMSes, and we put out a poll to ask your feedback about your hosts!

This post may be updated as time goes on as new services enter the hosting arena, or other important updates come to light.

Questions:

💻 I can get a free account with Wix/Squarespace/Carrd, could I just use those for my comic? - Web hosts like this may have gallery functions that could be adapted to display a series of pages, but they are very basic and not intended for webcomics.

📚 Wait, I host on Webtoon, Tapas, Comic Fury, or some other comic website, why are they not here? - Those are comic platforms! We'll get into those in a future post!

🕵️‍♀️Why does it say "shared hosting"? Who am I sharing with? - "Shared hosting" refers to sharing the server space with other customers. They will not have access to your files or anything, so it is perfectly fine to use for most comic CMSes. You may experience slowing if there is too much activity on a server, so if you're planning to host large files or more than 10 comics, you may want to upgrade to a more robust plan in the future.

Web Host List

Neocities

Basic plan pricing: Free or $5/month. Free plan has more restrictions (1 GB space, no custom domain, and slower bandwidth, among other things)

Notes: Neocities does not have database support for paid or free accounts, and most comic CMS solutions require this (ComicCtrl, Grawlix, Wordpress). You will need to work with HTML/CSS files directly to make a website and post each page.

Hostinger

Basic plan pricing: $11.99/month or $7.99/month with four year commitment (monthly, 1, 2, and 4 year plans available).

Notes: Free domain for the 1st year. Free SSL Certifications. Weekly backups.

KnownHost

Basic plan pricing: $8.95/month or $7.99/month with four year commitment (monthly, 1, 2, and 4 year plans available).

Notes: Free DDOS protection. Free SSL Certifications.

InMotion Hosting

Basic plan pricing: $12.99/month or $9.99/month with three year commitment (monthly, 1, and 3 year plans available).

Notes:  Free SSL Certifications, free domain names for 1 and 3 year plans. 24/7 live customer service and 90-day money-back guarantee. Inmotion also advertises eco-friendly policies: We are the first-ever Green Data Center in Los Angeles. We cut cooling costs by nearly 70 percent and reduce our carbon output by more than 2,000 tons per year.

Reviews:

👍“I can't remember it ever going down.”

👍“InMotion has a pretty extensive library full of various guides on setting up and managing websites, servers, domains, etc. Customer service is also fairly quick on responding to inquiries.” 👎“I wish it was a bit faster with loading pages.”

Ionos Hosting

Basic plan pricing: $8/month or $6/month with three year commitment (monthly, 1, 2 and 3 year plans available).

Notes: Free domain for the first year, free SSL Certification, Daily backup and recovery is included. Site Scan and Repair is free for the first 30 days and then is $6/month.

Reviews:

👍“Very fast and simple” 👎“Customer service is mediocre and I can't upload large files”

Bluehost

Basic plan pricing: $15.99/month or $4.95/month with three year commitment (monthly, 1, 3 year plans available).

Notes: Free domain and SSL certificates (for first year only). 24/7 Customer Service. Built to handle higher traffic websites. Although they specialize in Wordpress websites and provide updates automatically, that's almost a bad thing for webcomic plugins because they will often break your site. Their cloud hosting services are currently in early access with not much additional information available.

Reviews:

👎"The fees keep going up. Like I could drop $100 to cover a whole year, but now I'm paying nearly $100 for just three months. It's really upsetting."

👎"I have previously used Bluehost’s Wordpress hosting service and have had negative experiences with the service, so please consider with a grain of salt. I can confirm at least that their 24/7 customer service was great, although needed FAR too often."

Dreamhost

Basic plan pricing: $7.99/month or $5.99/month with three year commitment (monthly, 1, 3 year plans available).

Notes: Free SSL Certificates, 24/7 support with all plans, 97-day moneyback guarantee. Not recommended for ComicCtrl CMS

Reviews:

👍“They've automatically patched 2 security holes I created/allowed by mistake.” 👍“Prices are very reasonable” 👎 “back end kind of annoying to use” 👎 “wordpress has some issues” 👎 “it's not as customizable as some might want“

GoDaddy

Basic plan pricing: $11.99/month or $9.99/month with three year commitment (monthly, 1, 2, and 3 year plans available).

Notes: Free 24/7 Customer service with all plans, Free SSL Certificates for 1 year, free domain and site migration.

Reviews:

👍Reasonable intro prices for their Economy hosting, which has 25GB of storage 👍Migrated email hosting service from cPanel to Microsoft Office, which has greater support but may not be useful for most webcomic creators. 👎 Many site issues and then being upsold during customer service attempts. 👎 Server quality found lacking in reviews 👎 Marketing scandals in the past with a reputation for making ads in poor taste. Have been attempting to clean up that image in recent years. 👎 “GoDaddy is the McDonald's of web hosting. Maybe the Wal-Mart of hosting would be better. If your website was an object you would need a shelf to put it on. You go to Wal-Mart and buy a shelf. It's not great. It's not fancy. It can only hold that one thing. And if we're being honest - if the shelf broke and your website died it wouldn't be the end of the world.The issue comes when you don't realize GoDaddy is the Wal-Mart of hosting. You go and try to do things you could do with a quality shelf. Like, move it. Or add more things to it.” MyWorkAccountThisIs on Reddit*

Things to consider for any host:

💸 Introductory/promotional pricing - Many hosting companies offer free or inexpensive deals to get you in the door, and then raise the cost for these features after the first year or when you renew. The prices in this post are the base prices that you can expect to pay after the promotional prices end, but may get outdated, so you are encouraged to do your own research as well.

💻 Wordpress hosting - Many of the companies below will have a separate offering for Wordpress-optimized hosting that will keep you updated with the latest Wordpress releases. This is usually not necessary for webcomic creators, and can be the source of many site-breaking headaches when comic plugins have not caught up to the latest Wordpress releases.

Any basic hosting plan on this list will be fine with Wordpress, but expect to stop or revert Wordpress versions if you go with this as your CMS.

🤝 You don't have to go it alone - While free hosts may be more limited, paid hosting on a web server will generally allow you to create different subdomains, or attach additional purchased domains to any folders you make. If you have other comic-making friends you know and trust, you can share your server space and split the cost!

Want to share your experience?

Feel free to contribute your hosting pros, cons, and quirks on our survey! We will be updating our list periodically with your feedback!

[luxenvulpies]

[Missing-Link] CBT1 Info

Since the closed beta began, there has been a lot of activity with testers posting images, videos, and details (and some streaming). I've compiled some for easier browsing:

Character customization

Body types A and B

Character creation

Earring (whose?)

Some customization

Maku's drip

More drip

FFXIV Black Mage but green

FFXVI Jill Warrick

Purchasable outfits named after Final Fantasy jobs (each cost 2k jewels you know the ones)

UI

Equipment menu

Vertical and horizontal resolution with seamless transition

Gameplay

Dive to the Heart tutorial (stained glass may be a spoiler)

More Dive to the Heart

Meeting other players in the hub area

Timed battles (apparently may not be all fights)

Timed battle footage (not enough info on who or what is the opponent)

Buzz Lightyear and Sulley piece usage

Charged attacks

Ranged Keyblade

Grand Chests that contains a piece

GPS and walking on buildings with no care in the world

Losing all health & reviving

Raid battle completion

Raid battle completion screens

Piece enhancement screens :worry:

Donald piece screen (JP)

Prince Phillip piece screen (JP)

Mickey piece screen (JP)

Sora piece screen (JP)

Defeating area bosses grant coins to exchange for accessories. Accessories are enhanced with a chance of failure. Using enhancement records will increase stats.

Ireland

Auto gameplay result screen (JP): AP gained, defeated enemies, times activated(?), recovery spots used, treasure chests obtained, pieces obtained

Elemental wheel (no, this was not stolen from another game, so stop that nonsense)

Gacha

Winnie the Pooh

Some pull rates (subject to change!)

2 banners

Sora, Riku, Kairi Pieces

Story (spoilers!!)

JP intro (not sure if the English version is dubbed No dub, yet anyway)

Scala ad Caelum logo appearing (not really a spoiler)

Posting any text here will spoil it - just click the link

Other

Scala ad Caelum logo

Beta data size (~1.9GB)

Guide Moogle (Cute, kupo!)

Astral Plane battle music

AimmsBear's experience thread

Key_Cast's thread on game mechanics and some lore

Summary of Nomura's visit to the Artnia Cafe in Japan with reports from those who attended (via lottery)

Streamers/Video Archives

[leeadamsmusic3630] Multiple videos with specific features

[Dive Hearts] Game records/growth log, UI editor

Our Stuff

Post on spreadsheets with data from the closed beta

---

[otakween]

Digimon World Data Squad - Final Thoughts

Another Digimon game defeated 😉 This one felt kind of like a knock off of the Tales of series in its presentation (although it has turn based fighting). They're both Bandai Namco, so not much of a stretch there. It's one of those games that's objectively kinda bad but still manages to be enjoyable despite its flaws.

Despite the localized name, it is NOT a part of the Digimon World series. I guess it's considered a standalone. Kind of a side story to the Savers/Data Squad anime.

Notes:

This game took me slightly over 17 hours to beat over 3 weeks. Really the time it takes to beat is inflated because the game throws a random encounter at you every two seconds 😒 Also, I could have done all the bonus content, but I really didn't want to trudge through the dungeons again.

Speaking of the random encounters, not only do they slow the game to a crawl, they also make it pretty easy to become OP so long as you don't flee from any of them. Sometimes I enjoy the built in grinding, but this was a bit excessive. The "low/no encounter" items made things better late in the game but you also had to use a new one so frequently because they expired in like 1 minute!

Another frustration with this game is that the sound mixing was atrocious! It had the benefit of having all the English dub voices but that didn't matter because you couldn't freakin' hear anyone over the blaring music! It was painful to listen to and the subtitles were absolutely required. (There was no way to adjust the sound btw)

I was impressed by how much is voiced in this game, even though the dialogue is not that well written. I liked that they had victory dialogue at the end of each battle (that I could barely make out lol).

Graphics-wise I think the game looked pretty nice, typical PS2 JRPG with the bright colors from the show. The movement of the digimon in and out of battles was great. I really liked Agumon's "windmill arms" when he got all charged up. That was cute.

Weird af battle mechanics were not for me. Which skills you have access to are based on your digimon's mood and sometimes they want to be useless for whatever reason. A lot of the support/guard skills I also just never used because it was extremely unclear what they did? I couldn't find good online guides for this game either because it's not that popular lol.

(Gaogamon was the most annoying digimon in my party. He never wanted to be helpful in battle and his attacks were always super weak >:()

Speaking of weird mechanics, digivolution was weird too! I eventually realized that there was a hidden (never introduced/explained) menu that told you the requirements for each digivolution. I spent a long time thinking it was just random and getting shitty digimon every time I attempted a digivolve mid-battle. On the bright side, it was easy to just pick a digivolution you already unlocked and jump to it. That was convenient but felt really weird because digimon games have never let me do that before (at least not going to a higher level).

This entire game was insultingly easy until the final boss who suddenly got really hard (until I found a good strategy). All the other bosses just took one try. The game is very unbalanced because they give you so much money after each battle to the point where you can basically buy infinite recovery items.

Every single boss I fought (except one) had the same "VB" weakness? How lame is that? I was able to use the exact same strategy for ever boss and it made things very monotonous.

I liked the dungeon design/variety in locations, but the constant battles left me disoriented and made it hard to appreciate the view.

(Shout out to the walkthrough I found that had maps of each one. Made things a lot less painful.)

There was a handful of game exclusive characters that were fine I guess. I liked Kosaburo and his Biyomon, but Yuma and Kagura were pretty forgettable. They felt like the kind of characters you'd see that were made to appear once in a Digimon movie.

Speaking of Kagura, he was the (gasp) surprise villain (another reason this reminded me of a Tales of game tbh). He was pretty pathetic as a villain. They reveal at the end that his whole motive was being jealous of Thomas being better than him at everything. Like, okay, cool story bro.

Rolled my eyes big time when they revealed that the plot revolved around the seven deadly sins. How many times is Japanese media gonna pull out that cliche? I'm literally playing a completely unrelated visual novel rn (11eyes) that ALSO has a seven deadly sins plot. (Actually they came out 2 years apart from each other, so maybe it was a 2000s craze lol).

It seemed pretty unnecessarily cruel to kill off Nitta in front of his daughter like that. All the characters are just like "there there..." to her. I don't get why he had to die when Kagura didn't? (They were both "absorbed" by digimon) Makes no sense other than that Kagura had more plot armor.

I did feel pretty powerful defeating Lucemon Satan Mode at the end there. Unfortunately this is one of those games that goes back to the title screen after you beat the last boss. I've always thought that was a weird choice. Let me save!!

The Digimon video game franchise continues to be completely different with every release! Half of me is like "what's up with this chaotic mess!?" and the other half is like "yes!! Keep surprising me!" I'm really glad I'm playing the games alongside the anime. Feel like I'm on my way to becoming a Digimon scholar lol.

I give Digimon World Data Squad a 5 out of 10.

[liquidbird-official]

NASA has just confirmed something groundbreaking—Voyager 1 and 2 are coming home. After nearly five decades in interstellar space, both spacecraft will begin their return journey using a classified propulsion system secretly integrated into their design.

The plan was hidden from the public and Congress to prevent funding cuts. Ever since Apollo ended, Congress had been scaling back deep-space programs, so NASA kept this as a contingency.

Unlike their outward journey, which used gravity assists to escape the solar system, their return will rely on a gravitational recapture trajectory.

Jupiter and Saturn are perfectly aligned to provide back-to-back slingshots, boosting their speed to 78 km/s, nearly double their original velocity. Combined with high-efficiency ion thrusters, this will allow a rapid approach back toward Earth.

A key factor is the RTG nuclear battery reserve, a secret feature installed at launch. While the public specs listed only 470 watts of power, engineers had quietly included an additional 940-watt thermal energy reserve, intended for a controlled return if needed.

These RTGs will now activate the return thrusters, guiding both probes back into Earth’s gravitational influence.

NASA estimates reentry on 6/31/2037, over the Southern Hemisphere. The recovery plan ensures a controlled descent, preventing any risk of uncontrolled reentry.

Scientists are eager to analyze the spacecraft, which have endured nearly 50 years of deep-space exposure, providing rare data on long-term spaceflight durability.

For decades, Voyager was seen as a one-way mission. But this proves otherwise. The return of Voyager 1 and 2 will mark a historic moment—the first retrieval of an interstellar spacecraft and proof that no mission is truly final.

Follow for daily educational content and check the link in bio for free ebooks on the space shuttle, ISS, Falcon 9, and rocket propellants.

[therpistlr]

6-Month Therapeutic Plan for Avoidant Personality Disorder (AvPD) — A Gentle Guide

✨ A Tumblr-Style Post ✨

you’re not broken. you’re learning how to exist in a world that feels too loud. this 6-month plan is your map—not to “fix” yourself, but to stretch the edges of your comfort zone just enough. go at your pace.

month 1-2: safety first ☁ build your base:

therapy prep: if possible, find a therapist who gets chronic shame (look for CBT for AvPD”).

comfort inventory: list 3 places/activities where you feel neutral (e.g., your bed, a quiet park bench). these are your “reset spots.”

voice notes: record 1 thing you’d tell a friend with AvPD. listen back. (yes, it’ll feel weird.)

month 3-4: tiny experiments 🌱 play with edges:

social dips: wave at a neighbor or say “thanks” to a cashier. no eye contact needed. log how it felt (1-10 scale).

boundary draft: script a “no” for low-stakes asks (“I can’t pet-sit, sorry!”). practice in the mirror.

reddit lurker → commenter: reply to one post anonymously. delete if panic wins. that’s still practice.

month 5-6: redefining ‘safe’ 🌀 soft challenges:

1% vulnerability: share a mild opinion with someone you trust (“I liked that movie” or “I prefer tea”). notice: did the sky fall? (spoiler: nope.)

avpd ally: follow 2 AvPD recovery accounts. dm them a 🖤 if they post something relatable.

witness the critic: when shame whispers “they hate you,” write its rant in comic sans. it loses power in silly fonts.

remember: ✓ relapse = data, not failure. ✓ progress is non-linear (like a tamagotchi—some days you just feed it). ✓ you’re allowed to mute this post if it’s too much right now. __ A Recovery Tool for Home

[hexguardheart]

"The Price of Remembering"

HexguardHeart

Chapter 1: Harvest the Forgotten

Memory dealers worked the night shift. Always had. Easier to convince people to sell pieces of themselves when darkness made everything feel less real.

Vi watched from her perch on the fire escape, counting the desperate souls lined up outside Kiramman Corp's newest "donation center" in Lower Manhattan. Clean white storefront cutting through the neon-stained grime of the street below. Pristine logo hovering like a false prophet above the entrance. Pretty lies about "memory sharing for medical research" scrolling across holographic displays.

The rain made everything blur together, the advertisements, the tears, the promises of quick cash for just one happy memory. Just one more. Always one more.

Bullshit. They were harvesting happiness from the poor to feed the rich's newest addiction.

Her neural implant buzzed, a warning tick that meant her short-term memory buffer was nearly full. Again. She'd have to dump it soon or risk losing the last few hours entirely. Not that it mattered much anymore. Nothing stuck anyway. Not since the accident. These days, her mind was like water, everything flowed through, leaving only ripples of what used to be.

"Target incoming," Ekko's voice crackled through her earpiece. "Black town car. British model."

Vi straightened, focusing on the sleek vehicle pulling up to the center's private entrance. The back door opened, and she saw her for the first time.

Caitlyn Kiramman. Memory authentication specialist. Corporate princess. Walking contradiction in a tailored coat that probably cost more than most people's monthly rent. The way she moved through the rain was precise, calculated, like someone who'd learned to navigate spotlight and shadow in equal measure.

But it wasn't the coat that caught Vi's attention. It wasn't even the perfect posture or the cut-glass accent as she said something to her security detail. It was the way she carried herself, like someone holding secrets they hadn't chosen to keep. Like someone who might understand what it meant to live with holes in your head.

Vi logged the observation automatically, knowing it would be gone by morning. Just another ghost in her fractured memory.

The fire escape groaned as Vi made her way down, muscle memory guiding her through the familiar path of rust and shadows. Her sanctuary waited six floors below, not quite street level, not quite underground. Like everything in her life, it existed in the in-between.

The Memory Den, they called it that as a joke at first. Now it was home to dozens who'd lost too much to the trade. Vi's makeshift clinic occupied what used to be a boxing gym, the old ring now serving as their recovery space. Padding torn, ropes frayed, but still standing. Like them.

She dropped through the skylight, landing soft despite her boots. The air inside always smelled of ozone and coffee, side effects of too many neural drives running backup protocols. Ekko's screens cast their blue glow across the walls, lines of code reflecting off salvaged servers and modified medical equipment.

"Another quiet night?" Viktor asked without looking up from his workbench. His fingers danced across neural implant components, building something new from the scraps of the rich's discarded tech.

"Quiet enough." Vi stripped off her wet jacket, the implant at the base of her skull buzzing again. "Time for a dump?"

Viktor nodded, finally looking up. His eyes were tired but kind. "Better safe than sorry. You're running hot."

She dropped into the chair beside him, familiar with the routine. The cable clicked into her port with practiced ease. Every night, they backed up what little she could still hold onto. Hours compressed into data, stored in drives that remembered what she couldn't.

"Found something interesting in today's backup," Viktor said quietly. "A memory fragment from last week actually stuck. It's small, but it's there."

Vi's heart kicked. "Show me."

The screen flickered to life, showing a child's smile, one of the kids they'd helped escape the harvesting centers. Just a flash, gone in seconds, but it was more than she'd retained in months.

"How?" she asked, throat tight.

Viktor shrugged, but his eyes held something like hope. "Theory? Strong emotional resonance. Your brain wanted to keep this one."

Vi absorbed that, knowing she'd probably forget this conversation by morning. But maybe some part of her would remember that she could still remember. Sometimes.

The backup finished with a soft chime. Vi stood, rolling her shoulders as the system disconnected. Above them, through gaps in the ceiling, neon advertisements painted the night sky in corporate colors. Somewhere up there, the elite were probably getting high on other people's joy, other people's love, other people's peace.

"They're pushing into the Lower East Side next week," Ekko called from his station. "New 'donation center' opening in what used to be the community hospital."

Vi's jaw tightened. "Then we'll be there too."

She headed for her room which was really just a corner of the gym sectioned off with salvaged panels and stubborn pride. A bed. A chair. A wall of photographs she took every day to remind herself who she was, what she fought for. Some faces she recognized. Others felt like strangers, even though she knew they were family.

The implant buzzed one final time before quieting. Tomorrow, she'd wake up and need the photos to remember. But for now, in this moment, she knew exactly who she was.

And she knew what they had to do next.

[whiteraven87]

Driven by Desire: Fire and Speed - 12. Night Experiments [18+]

The Unstoppable Series - Masterlist

Four parts. Two hearts. One love story.

pairing: Toto Wolff x Miriell Joschke (Original Character, female F1 driver)

Series warnings: long fan fiction/series, slow burn, age gap (23 years), woman racing in F1, boss/driver relationship, difficult and painful past, death, angst, recovery after trauma and loss, love after loss, sexual tension, sex scenes, illness, angst, pregnancy, memory lost.

full series word count: 218k words of speed, scars, slow-burning love, and everything in between.

----------------

chapters until now of Part 4: Driven by Desire: Fire and Speed

Prologue

Return to Life

YES!

We are back

Third World Championship Title

The Night That Changed Everything

The Inevitable Conversation

Now and Forever [18+]

You Are the Reason

Our Place

The New Driver

Night Experiments [18+]

In His Power [18+]

Memories

The Royal Couple of F1 [18+]

New Era

The First Race of the Season and Rumors

Mercedes – Power, Style, and Authority

Triumph of a Young Champion

Shadows of the Night

previous Parts:

Part 1: Driven by Speed - A Diamond Among Stones

Part 2: Driven by Success - Golden Girl

Part 3: Driven by Love - Rebirth from the Ashes

-----------------------------

12. Night Experiments [18+]

Monaco, February, Penthouse

POV Miriell

Monaco was my moment of calm before the storm. The season was fast approaching, and our lives were starting to revolve once again around meetings, testing, and sponsors. I knew that soon we'd be caught in the whirlwind of responsibilities, and time spent together would become a luxury. That's why I soaked up every free moment in our Monaco penthouse like a sponge.

I swam in the terrace pool, feeling the warm water loosen my muscles. Then I'd head into the living room, where the simulator awaited—my second kingdom. Sitting in the cockpit, I practiced race scenarios, analyzed data, and focused on every detail of the circuits I would face in the upcoming season.

When Toto wasn't caught up in business meetings or engineering discussions, we spent time together. Sometimes we just lay on the couch, silent, watching something or talking about everything and nothing. I loved those moments—the simple intimacy that balanced our intense lifestyle.

It was in Monaco, browsing a bookshelf, that I came across a novel I had been gifted long ago by one of the PR girls. It was an erotic novel—something I had never read before, since I usually preferred epic fantasy and sci-fi. But now, with my life with Toto infused with a new kind of passion, curiosity stirred in me.

I sat on the sofa and opened the book. With each page, a warmth I had never known before spread through me—something between excitement and a gentle embarrassment. The novel described aspects of intimacy I'd never thought about. Some things sounded intriguing, others made my cheeks burn. But one idea stayed with me—dominance. Not in the sense of extreme submission, but in the subtle taking of control—a certain firmness I already knew from Toto.

I knew that in our intimate life, he was the experienced one. He was my teacher, guiding me into a world I'd never known before. And I trusted him completely.

That evening, lying beside him in bed, I could feel my heart racing. I wanted to tell him about it, but I felt a little shy.

"Toto..." I began softly, biting my lip.

"Hm?" he answered lazily, turning his gaze to me.

"I..." I hesitated, my cheeks already heating up.

Toto raised an eyebrow slightly, waiting patiently.

"I read something... and..." I took a deep breath. "I just... I like it sometimes when you're assertive."

His lips curled into a slow, knowing smile.

"Oh?" he asked calmly, but there was a glimmer of interest in his eyes.

"Yes," I admitted, avoiding his gaze. "It... turns me on."

"I know," he said with amusement.

I blinked, surprised.

"You know?"

"Miriell, Liebling..." His hand moved to my cheek, brushing it gently. "I see how you react. I hear it. I feel it."

I pressed my lips together, already on the edge of drowning in my own embarrassment.

"So..." I began, but stopped, realizing how far I'd already gone.

"So?" he echoed, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.

"Could we... maybe... experiment?"

Toto didn't answer right away. Instead, he leaned in closer, his warm breath brushing against my skin.

"Of course we can, meine Liebe."

I shivered slightly at that low, tender tone.

"But I want you to know one thing," he continued. "I'll never do anything you don't want. You set the boundaries."

I nodded, and he ran his hand along my hip, pausing gently at my waist.

"I want you to always tell me what you like, what you want. You don't have to be ashamed of it."

"But it's a bit... embarrassing," I mumbled, my heart pounding in my chest.

He chuckled softly and kissed me gently on the forehead.

"My beautiful, intelligent, fearless Miriell... You're not afraid to drive a car at 350 km/h, but talking about what excites you makes you blush?"

I rolled my eyes but smiled a little.

"Because... it's something new."

Toto tucked a strand of hair behind my ear, his gaze warm but attentive.

"I love when you're open with me. When you trust me."

"I do trust you," I said without hesitation.

He leaned in and pressed a gentle kiss to my lips.

"Then let me take care of you."

And he did exactly that. He turned me onto my back, slid up my shirt and began kissing me, his hands gliding over my body, exploring every inch of it. When he moved lower, kissing my breasts, a soft moan escaped my lips. He sucked on my nipples, then traced a path with his tongue from my stomach down to my womanhood. When he began kissing and caressing it with his mouth and tongue, he pushed me to the edge.

I was completely lost in the moment, whispering his name, provoking him to lose himself even deeper in our shared pleasure.

I was already at my limit. I felt my body burning, each of his touches setting another layer of me on fire. My thighs trembled, my skin was hot and sticky with sweat, from his mouth, his hands, his heavy breath on my neck.

I couldn't stop myself, I wanted to feel all of him—his dominance, his strength.

"Toto, take me... take me however you want..." I murmured in a hoarse voice, my body trembling with tension.

He only growled something low and guttural. But in that sound, there was everything. Desire. Hunger. And that which I only knew in him—control broken by pure craving.

Toto didn't wait long. Firmly, but gently, he turned me onto my stomach, and his hands gripped my hips—strong but sensitive. I surrendered completely to his touch, letting him guide me, letting myself get lost in this moment.

"You're so beautiful..." he whispered, leaning over me and placing a hot kiss on my bare back. A shiver ran down my spine as I felt his lips on my neck and shoulders. His hands held my hips firmly, squeezing them tighter—and then, with one strong, decisive thrust, he entered me—hard, deep. I felt all of him, and a loud moan escaped my lips. Our bodies moved in perfect rhythm—intense, full of desire.

I clenched my hands around the edge of the bed, my breath coming in short, drawn-out gasps that turned into moans of pure ecstasy. Toto moved more intensely, one hand gripping my hip tightly, controlling the motion, the other caressing my buttocks, back, stomach—and when he touched my breast and began teasing it, my sensations only intensified.

He moved inside me deeply, intensely, in a rhythm that made me lose my senses. I felt my spine arching toward him, my hips begging for more, harder, deeper.

Every thrust hit the most sensitive spot. Every one of his moans was like a wave that washed through me.

"Toto..." I whispered his name with a trembling voice, burying my face in the pillow as I felt him take full control over me. I lost myself in that moment, feeling the climax wash over my entire body, clenching tighter around him. Toto felt it, his hands gripping my hips more firmly—and with another thrust, he exploded inside me, leaning over and whispering my name.

"Miriell... you're amazing..."

For a moment, the room was silent, broken only by our quickened breaths. Toto collapsed onto the bed beside me, and his hand immediately reached for mine, intertwining our fingers.

"You never stop surprising me..." he whispered, brushing his lips against the skin by my collarbone.

I smiled lazily, turning my head toward him.

"And I never want to stop..." I replied softly, brushing his lips in a gentle, love-filled kiss.

Toto pulled me closer, our bodies curling into each other as if nothing else existed. We lay like that for a long time, basking in the warmth of our closeness, until I finally murmured:

"We should do it like this more often..."

Toto chuckled quietly, kissing my temple.

"Liebling, after what just happened... you have no idea what you've just agreed to."

A few days later

The evening was quiet, broken only by the steady sound of waves lapping against the shore. We lay in bed, wrapped in soft sheets, the warm glow of Monaco's nightlights casting gentle shadows across the walls. I was curled up against Toto's side, absentmindedly tracing patterns on his chest with my finger. I could feel the slow rise and fall of his breathing, his hand resting on my back in a lazy, comforting gesture.

Toto was tired. I knew he'd had a long day—meetings, decisions, responsibilities that never seemed to end. But here, now, he was mine alone.

"Toto?" I asked softly.

He hummed in response, letting me know he was listening.

"Can I ask you something?"

"Always."

I pressed my lips together, gathering my thoughts. After our last conversation—when I had shyly confessed my desires—something had shifted in me. I felt more open, bolder, more curious. But I also knew that relationships don't flow in only one direction. If I could share what I wanted... did he have needs he had never voiced?

"Do you... have any desires you've never told me about?"

Toto tensed—just for a split second. Barely noticeable, but I felt it.

"What do you mean?" His voice stayed calm, but there was a trace of caution in it.

I lifted my head to look into his eyes.

"In bed."

His pupils widened slightly, as if he hadn't expected the question.

"Miriell..."

"Please. Tell me." My voice was quiet but full of honest curiosity.

He sighed, running a hand over his face, as though weighing whether he should say it.

"You've never asked before."

"Because only now am I ready to."

Silence stretched between us. I saw him turn my words over in his mind, trying to decide whether to let me in. Finally, he exhaled deeply and met my gaze.

"There's something in me... something I've never shown any woman before," he said slowly, and I felt my heartbeat quicken.

"What is it?"

He raised his hand and gently stroked my cheek.

"I've always had a need for control—for dominance. I've wanted a woman who would surrender to me completely. Not out of fear, not because of force... but because she trusts me enough to give herself fully, without resistance."

I stared at him, a strange heat blooming low in my belly.

"But... you've never acted on that?"

"No." He shook his head. "None of my partners were open to it. They never asked, never wanted to know, never seemed ready for it. So I never brought it up."

He paused for a moment, as if carefully choosing his next words.

"And then... you appeared. And with you, I knew from the beginning—I had to be careful."

"Why?"

"Because you're younger. Because you've lived through your own shadows... and I didn't want to scare you. You're everything to me, and I didn't want to lose you because of something I desire."

I felt my heart tighten, not from fear—but from something else. A strange, tender tension.

"But... if it's something you truly want, why didn't you tell me?"

Toto smiled sadly.

"Because I didn't want you to feel like you had to do it for me."

I blinked, holding my breath.

"What if... I want it too?"

His expression shifted slightly, as if he wasn't sure he had heard me right.

"Miriell..."

"I'm not saying I know exactly what it looks like. But I trust you. You know that, right?"

"Yes," he whispered.

"So if this is something that truly draws you in... I want you to show me."

He stared at me for a moment, then sighed, tilting his head back and clenching his jaw.

"You have no idea what you're doing to me, Miriell."

I smiled faintly, even as my cheeks flushed warm.

"Then show me."

Toto's eyes searched my face, scanning for any sign of hesitation. But there was none.

I was ready.

What I didn't yet know... was that this innocent, honest conversation would change our intimacy forever.

-------------------

NEXT -> 13. In His Power [18+]

-------------------

"I put my armor on, show you how strong I am."

Read the story here:

AO3 Unstoppable Series

Wattpad: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

🇵🇱 Dla Polskich czytelników [for Polish readers] [PL]:

Seria Niepowstrzymana AO3

Wattpad PL: Part1 I Part 2 I Part 3 | Part 4

[mariacallous]

Amid Israeli airstrikes this week and the imminent threat of further escalations by the United States, Iran started severely limiting internet connectivity for its citizens, limiting Iranians' access to crucial information and intentionally pushing them toward domestic apps that may not be secure. Meanwhile, the Israel-tied hacking group known as Predatory Sparrow is waging cyberwar on Iran’s financial system, attacking Iran’s Sepah Bank and destroying more than $90 million in cryptocurrency held by the Iranian crypto exchange Nobitex.

With the US still reeling from last weekend's violent shooting spree in Minnesota targeting Democratic state lawmakers and their families, an FBI affidavit indicates that the suspected shooter allegedly used data broker sites to find targets’ addresses and potentially other personal information about them. The finding highlights the potential dangers of widely available personal data.

This week, WIRED published its How to Win a Fight package, which includes our roundup of tools for tracking the Trump administration’s attacks on civil liberties, plus the most up-to-date versions of our guides to protecting yourself from government surveillance, protesting safely in the age of surveillance, and protecting yourself from phone searches at the US Border. While you're at it, don't forget to print your own copy of the How to Win a Fight zine! Better yet, print two and leave one at your local coffee shop or library.

And there's more. Each week, we round up the security and privacy news we didn’t cover in depth ourselves. Click the headlines to read the full stories. And stay safe out there.

Israel Reports That Iran Is Hacking Security Cameras for Spying

Israeli officials said this week that Iran is compromising private security cameras around Israel to conduct espionage as the two countries exchange missile strikes after an initial Israeli barrage. A former Israeli cybersecurity official warned on public radio this week that Israelis should confirm that their home security cameras are protected by strong passwords or shut them down. “We know that in the past two or three days, the Iranians have been trying to connect to cameras to understand what happened and where their missiles hit to improve their precision,” Refael Franco, the former deputy director general of the Israel National Cyber Directorate, said. Like many internet-of-things devices, surveillance cameras are notoriously vulnerable to takeover if they are not secured with strong account protections. They have previously been targeted in other conflicts for intelligence gathering.

Ukrainian Hack Reportedly Caused Comms Blackouts, Data Deletion in Russia

The Kyiv Post reported this week that hackers from Ukraine’s Main Intelligence Directorate (HUR) launched a cyberattack against Russian internet service provider Orion Telecom that disabled 370 servers, took down roughly 500 network switches, and wiped backup systems to hinder recovery. The attacks reportedly caused internet and television outages. Orion Telecom reportedly said that it was recovering from a large DDoS attack and would quickly restore service. The attack came on June 12, the national holiday known as Russia Day. “Happy holiday, disrespectful Russians," the attackers wrote in a message circulated on Telegram groups. "Soon you’ll be living in the Stone Age—and we’ll help you get there. Glory to Ukraine.” The attackers claim to be part of Ukraine's BO Team hacking group. Sources told the Kyiv Post that Russian security agencies working on the country's war against Ukraine use Orion Telecom and were affected by the connectivity outages.

Viasat ID’ed as Another Victim in China’s Salt Typhoon Telecom Hacking Spree

Bloomberg reported this week that the satellite communication firm Viasat discovered a breach earlier this year perpetrated by China's Salt Typhoon espionage-focused hacking group. In early December, US authorities revealed that Salt Typhoon hackers had embedded themselves in major US telecoms, including AT&T and Verizon. After revelations last year of the group's extensive telecom hacking spree in the US and elsewhere, WIRED reported in February that Salt Typhoon was still actively breaching new victims. Viasat says it has been cooperating with federal authorities to investigate its breach.

23andMe Hit With UK Fine Over 2023 Data Breach

The United Kingdom's Information Commissioner’s Office (ICO) said this week that it issued a £2.31 million ($3.1 million) fine to the beleaguered genetic testing company 23andMe as a result of the company's damaging 2023 data breach. Attackers were able to access user accounts and their data using stolen login credentials, because at the time 23andMe did not require that users set up two-factor authentication, which the ICO says violated the UK's data protection law. The company has since mandated this protection for all users. More than 155,000 UK residents had their data stolen in the breach, according to the ICO, which said that 23andMe “did not have additional verification steps for users to access and download their raw genetic data” when the breach occurred.

[furiouslycrispylocket]

Thrissur’s Tech Hub: Your Guide to the Best Laptop Shops and Stores in Town

When it comes to buying a new laptop, one-size-fits-all doesn’t apply. Every buyer has different needs—some want power and performance, while others look for portability and price. Whether you’re a student preparing for college, a work-from-home professional, a gamer, or someone replacing an outdated device, choosing the right laptop shop in Thrissur can make a world of difference.

Thrissur, known for its cultural heritage, is now gaining recognition as a growing tech destination. The city is home to several reputed laptop shops and stores that offer the latest products, expert advice, and personalized service you simply won’t get from online marketplaces.

Why You Should Buy Your Laptop Locally in Thrissur

The local tech market in Thrissur has matured over the years. Today, it boasts a wide selection of laptop retailers, all competing to offer customers the best value. But it’s not just about price—buying from a trusted laptop store in Thrissur gives you access to:

Hands-on experience with the laptop before you buy

Immediate support for installation, setup, or troubleshooting

Face-to-face guidance from experienced professionals

Real-time product comparisons across brands and models

Exclusive in-store offers, discounts, and freebies

Unlike online portals, which often leave you to figure things out on your own, a local store offers an actual human touch—from answering technical questions to offering repair and upgrade services post-sale.

Features of a Trusted Laptop Shop in Thrissur

Looking for the right place to buy your next device? Here’s what the best laptop shop in Thrissur typically offers:

🖥️ Wide Brand Variety

Top stores stock all major laptop brands including Dell, HP, Lenovo, ASUS, Acer, MSI, and Apple. Whether you need a basic Chromebook or a premium MacBook Pro, you’ll find it all under one roof.

👨‍💻 Personalized Recommendations

Salespersons aren’t just there to sell—they’re trained to understand your specific needs. You’ll get advice tailored to your budget, work profile, and usage habits.

💰 Best Price and EMI Plans

Local stores often provide seasonal discounts, bundled software, and easy EMI options to help you spread out payments. This makes a high-end laptop more affordable without compromising quality.

🔧 On-the-Spot Setup and Support

Get your OS installed, software loaded, antivirus activated, and even data transferred from your old laptop—before you walk out of the store. That’s the kind of service a good laptop store in Thrissur will always offer.

Who Shops for Laptops in Thrissur?

The demand for laptops in Thrissur is growing rapidly, driven by:

Students attending online classes and doing research work

Freelancers and digital nomads who need reliable machines

Startups looking to build teams affordably

Gamers seeking high-speed performance laptops

Business owners investing in office equipment

Home users looking for everyday devices for browsing, streaming, or communication

No matter who you are, a trusted laptop shop in Thrissur can help you choose a device that’s perfect for your lifestyle.

Services You Can Expect

Apart from sales, the top laptop store in Thrissur will offer a range of value-added services such as:

Hardware upgrades (RAM, SSD, HDD)

Operating system installations and recovery

Laptop servicing and diagnostics

Genuine software sales and license activation

Accessories like bags, cooling pads, keyboards, mice, and screen guards

These services make it more convenient to maintain and upgrade your laptop over time—without depending on third-party service providers.

Local vs Online: What’s the Better Choice?

While online shopping offers convenience, it often lacks personal interaction, post-sale service, and real-time product trials. Buying from a laptop shop in Thrissur gives you the best of both worlds—great prices and hands-on support.

Final Thoughts

When it’s time to buy a new laptop, don’t rush into an online deal that looks good on the surface but leaves you stranded when problems arise. Instead, invest your time and money with a reliable laptop store in Thrissur that offers more than just products—they offer partnership, support, and peace of mind.

Thrissur may be known for its tradition and heritage, but it’s also home to some of Kerala’s most dependable tech retailers. So whether you’re upgrading your work setup, gifting your child their first laptop, or stepping into the world of digital content creation, visit a trusted laptop shop in Thrissur today—and take home more than just a laptop. Take home confidence.

[arnshar]

Cyber Law Experts in Delhi – Protecting You Against Digital Fraud & Cyber Attacks

By admin / May 12, 2025

🔐 Cyber Crime Law Firm in Delhi – Defending Digital Rights with Legal Expertise

In today’s hyper-connected world, cybercrime is one of the most pressing threats affecting individuals, startups, and corporations alike. From online financial fraud to cyberbullying and hacking, digital crimes are on the rise — and you need expert legal protection. At Patent24x7, we stand as a leading cyber crime law firm in Delhi, providing specialized legal solutions to fight and prevent cyber offenses.

⚖️ What Does a Cyber Crime Law Firm in Delhi Do?

As technology evolves, so does the complexity of cybercrimes. Legal support from cyber law experts is crucial to:

File police complaints against online fraud

Initiate legal action in cases of cyber defamation, stalking, phishing, and data breaches

Defend against wrongful cybercrime allegations

Ensure corporate compliance with data protection and IT laws

🔍 Services Offered by Patent24x7 – Cyber Law Experts in Delhi

✅ Online Fraud Recovery

We help individuals and businesses reclaim lost money from UPI frauds, scam websites, fake trading apps, cryptocurrency fraud, and more.

✅ Cyber Complaint Filing

Get professional support to file a complaint at the Delhi Cyber Crime Cell or the National Cyber Crime Reporting Portal.

✅ Social Media & Email Harassment

Legal action for cases involving stalking, threats, morphed images, and impersonation on social platforms.

✅ Data Breach & Hacking

We assist tech firms and startups with legal redress and compliance in case of data theft or system breaches.

✅ Legal Defense in IT Offenses

Wrongfully accused? Our cybercrime lawyers in Delhi help you present a strong legal defense.

✅ Cybersecurity Legal Consulting

Advisory for startups, fintech companies, and IT firms on IT Act, data protection, and cyber compliance policies.

👨‍⚖️ Why Choose Patent24x7 as Your Cyber Crime Law Firm in Delhi?

🏛️ Expert Team of Cyber Lawyers

🌐 Tech-Savvy Legal Approach

📞 24×7 Legal Support

⚙️ Specialized in Online Fraud & Data Crimes

🔐 Client Confidentiality & Transparent Fees

Whether you’re filing a complaint or need urgent legal help, our experienced lawyers understand the legal, technical, and investigative side of cyber law.

📍 Why Delhi Residents Trust Patent24x7

Delhi is not just India’s capital—it’s a cybercrime hotspot. That’s why Patent24x7 has developed specific legal frameworks and rapid-response methods tailored to the Delhi region’s needs.

Whether it’s recovering funds or responding to a data breach, they know the landscape and the local procedures better than most.

❓ Frequently Asked Questions (FAQs)

Q1: How do I report a cybercrime in Delhi?

A: You can file a complaint at the Cyber Cell, Delhi Police, or report it via the National Cyber Crime Portal. Our team can guide you through every legal step.

Q2: Can I recover money from online fraud?

A: Yes, if action is taken quickly, we can help you trace and recover your funds legally via cyber police and banking channels.

Q3: Is online defamation punishable by law?

A: Yes. Posting defamatory content online can be penalized under the IT Act and IPC Sections like 499 and 500.

Q4: Do you provide corporate cybersecurity legal consulting?

A: Absolutely. We offer customized compliance policies, NDAs, and legal audits to protect your business from cyber threats.

📞 Contact the Best Cyber Crime Law Firm in Delhi – Patent24x7

🌐 Website / Contact Us – https://www.patent24x7.com/about-us/ 📺 YouTube – https://www.youtube.com/@Patent24x7 📘 Facebook – https://www.facebook.com/people/Patent24x7/61574451401299/ 📌 Pinterest – https://www.pinterest.com/patent24x7 📰 Blog – https://patent24x7online.blogspot.com/

📜 Disclaimer:

As per the rules of the Bar Council of India, this blog is for educational purposes only. It does not constitute solicitation or advertisement of legal services. Always consult a qualified lawyer for personalized legal advice.