#SIM Information System

[salman-bloch]

Sim Card Data Recovery, SIM Card Reader Software and SIM Card Clone Tool

SimCardData.info offers SIM card data recovery, cloning, and management solutions, providing software and tools to recover deleted data, read SIM card information, and duplicate data for backup or transfer purposes.

[danishbaloch-13]

How to do your SIM Owner Details with Live Finder Net Live Finder Net is a powerful online tool that allows users to find out detailed information about the owner of a SIM card. https://paksimga.info/

[academiaerpposts]

Best Universities in UK for SIMS | Academia ERP

Explore the best universities in the UK for SIMS (Student Information Management Systems). Visit Academia ERP Europe for top solutions to enhance educational management. Learn more: https://www.academiaerp.com/europe/

[shadowofroserade]

Introducing: Undertale Cooking with Kindness!

"This is going to be the greatest restaurant the Underground has ever seen!"

Undertale Cooking with Kindness is a prequel fangame focusing on the green SOUL, Sunny.

Following their fall into the Underground, Sunny meets Luna, a monster with dreams of making the greatest restaurant in the underground. Determined to help, Sunny agrees to work together to achieve this far-off goal. Still, the spectre of the Underground's King looms over Sunny, and it seems as if death is inevitable...

MEET THE STAFF

SUNNY

LUNA

GRILLBY

MAWZZ

GAMEPLAY

Unlike most other Undertale fangames, UTCWK features no battling whatsoever, nor does it feature a fight/mercy system. Instead, UTCWK's main gameplay is reminiscent of a restaurant and cooking sim. Instead of encountering and fighting enemies, Sunny must instead make it through days working at The Eclipse, making food and serving customers.

The game is split up into days. Every day you will have a set amount of customers to serve, and each order has a time limit, so you better act fast!

These orders are handled through cooking minigames! The UNDERTALE battle box and menus have been repurposed into the UI for a cooking game! These minigames are reminiscent of Cooking Mama and WarioWare.

Acting helps you determine the customer's preferences. The faster and closer to their preferences you manage to make the customers’ orders, the more GOLD and PRESTIGE you gain at the end of the day!

For more information please check out our:

GAMEJOLT

and

TWITTER

We hope to see you whenever the Eclipse finally opens its doors!

[kestrelteens]

Whew! I really really loved this set so much that I had to convert, well, almost everything?

The Nostalgia Living by @awingedllama has been my fave ever since it came out and I was just waiting for an ounce of my converting motivation to come back to get down to business. And it finally happened!

Because there are 50+ items in this set and it would take me 2 hours to list all of them, I will link this handy dandy catalog the original creator made so you can see what you're getting: RIGHT HERE. All of the objects are fairly low poly so you don't need to worry about that.

Some important information + previews can be found under the cut!

Enjoy & have fun! ♥

download (sfs) // alt download (mediafire)

grab the collection file here

There is a gaming console override included! Well, the console is buyable in the catalog and the override is for the controller so you need that package. It will conflict with any other overrides you have!

ALSO, 'cause there are some adorable vintage frames included in the set, I thought I could make them into changeable sim portraits! Now your sim family's portraits can match the fireplace (which is functional, also).

A lot of the items are repositoried to eachother! The shelving system, the couch, I did make note of that in the folders so you know what to download. Also, all the shelves have 10+ slots, the 'Dad's library' books function as bookshelves (and have slots on top of them).

The items I haven't converted and why (BUT I will look into them in the upcoming days I was just way too tired now lol sorry): draperies (the mesh appeared broken in the game); drink coaster (I forgot about this little guy); grand mirror (I still have to learn how to convert them lol); triangular shelf (I'm sorry but I really wasn't feeling this shelf, I remember it from my childhood and I always hated it in other ppl's houses lmao);

I also wanted to make the ceiling fan animated so it can spin and function as a light at the same time, but unfortunately right now that is above my converting capabilities! But I will look into that as well.

Right now I'm working on converting the build mode items! Precisely the doors, but the wallpapers + the carpets are included now. I will also convert the Nostalgia kitchen but it might take me a while 'cause I'm learning stuff about animating objects so I can also fix the CHALK kitchen I know it's ass, bear with me pls lmao ♥

AND this set is huge so I just know that I have forgotten about something or I have misplaced something in the folders, my adhd is having a field day SO please let me know if anything is missing or might not be working as intended! ♥

AND I mustn't forget to thank @tvickiesims for helping me out with the shelves and solved the issue of them not being recolorable, thank you Vickie! ♥

[cas-couture]

cas couture.

cas couture is an upcoming community-based sim magazine focused on fashion. what sets cas couture apart is that we will not allow permanently paywalled cc to be featured in the magazine and aim to highlight the numerous, talented cc creators in the community :)

we are looking for simblrs who would like their stories/cc/creations/sims/pretty-much-anything ADVERTISED (for free, this is not a cash grab) in the APRIL 2025 ISSUE!

as cas couture is community driven, we need YOUR participation!

( more info under the cut !!! )

we want to put the spotlight back on this community and appreciate active simblrs. we want to encourage blog interaction and actually make the community ~feel like a community!

what will advertising look like?

sponsoring might look different across different spreads, it might be an ad for a movie/ tv series (i.e., this would advertise a sim story), an ad for a product/ designer (i.e., this would advertise a CC creator) and so on.

we're pretty much open to advertising anything! :) if you have any ideas for how you would like your creation advertised, let us know!

what are the requirements to sponsor?

you must be 18+ to apply

this is for fun!!!! pls remember that :) and also pls don’t be zionists or trumpies or homophobes or racist or anything else awful because :( and that’ll be another reason why we can’t have nice things :(

submit this sponsorship form (set aside 10 mins to fill this out, if your sponsorship is accepted, have some pictures/content ready that you would like us to use!)

reblog this post so i know ur for real about wanting to advertise!!

you would reblog and boost and interact with the April issue when it releases on April 11 :) (this would run on an honor system because I'm not a weirdo, but........ like if not enough people do it, it probably won't be worth the effort of making all the ads if no one's going to read the first issue/ interact with it? the point of cas couture IS blog interaction!!!!)

deadline to submit a sponsorship form is April 1. if you are making your own advertisement, it is April 10.

faq

i'm an editor for the magazine already, can I apply to sponsor?

yes, you totally can! we would just request you still fill out the form and once we confirm your sponsorship, we would just ask you to make your own advertisement, as it would probably be the quickest method :)

can I make my own advertisement as a sponsor?

yes, you totally can! once you're accepted as a sponsor, we will send you more information on the canvas size and other regulations <3

how many advertisements are you accepting?

there is no set number, it's more like... how many advertisements we can crank out in time for April 11 :) if you are willing to create your own advertisement and submit it by April 10th, the chances are 99.999% that we would accept :)

why is reblogging this post a requirement in order to apply for sponsorship?

because it'll show that you're truly willing to ruin your impeccable feed with simblr community content! if you're not willing to do it now, you probably won't want to later :( cas couture can only fuel itself on my hopes and dreams for so long until it burns out :( the aim is for blog interaction, making (age-appropriate) friends and having a good time!!!!

thank you for supporting cas couture! you're helping fund the nepo babies'-- i mean, interns'-- matcha addictions-- i mean, education!

asking da community for some support <3

as this is totally a community project, i'm going to tag some community members who really helped the last post reach the masses (I'm sorry, I'm annoying for tagging!!!) and current editors (I'm going off the top of my head, I'm sorry if I miss anyone!!!) on the team for the April issue!!!! if you don't like to be tagged, I'm sorry!!!!! <3333

@householdbinary @jokiyo @simafrassx @olivetelfie @my-kwy @southernfriedsims-blog @ratwoman161 @harvestsims @mmonetsims @kdplayssss @liyahssims @fairytailtow @crazy-hazy-sims @aliengirl @strangegrapefruit @thebramblewood @thefoxburyinstitute @missatan

psst, we're still accepting editors for the April issue!!! learn more about the roles available here!

[lesmana-enterprise-ltd]

Almanara Castle, Historical Landmark in Tatrosa | Museum and Wedding Venue (NO CC)

The Almanara Castle (Also known as "Almanara Al-Tartos", or "Alcazar of Tartosa")

Almanara Castle, once part of the grand Qasr Al-Zayl al-Tartos, was the last refuge of Emir Jabar Al-Tartozi II before the fall of the Emirate of Tartosa in 1497. Spared after the siege, it later became a royal villa and was declared a cultural heritage site in 1876. Now a museum and wedding venue, Almanara offers a glimpse into Tartosa’s past with stunning coastal views.

Lesmana Enterprise led the restoration efforts after the 2021 Tartosa earthquake which damaged the castle, restoring it to its former glory.

The Last of its Kind in Tartosa

This picturesque castle was built in the late 14th century during the early years of the Tartosan Emirate rule by Al-Simhara sulanate engineers.

Its arabesque-moorish architecture is a reminder of a much more different, by-gone era of Tartosa's deep history.

Well Preserved, As if it was Built Yesterday

Our team of highly skilled engineers, historians, craftspeople, and archeologists ensures that the Almanara Castle retains its charm for centuries to come.

From intricate archway designs, geometric tileworks, centuries-old plasters, to water features that had worked for the past 600 years without the use of eletricity, we made sure visitors would experience Almanara Castle the way the Emirs of Tartosa and his royal court had experienced it centuries ago.

The Hall of Jenane

During the rule of Emir Hamid I (AD 1401-1429), Almanara Castle was repurposed as a private quarter of his daughter Amirah Jenane Al-Munr, who added more geometric tilework to the castle, adorned in her favorite azure and tosca colors to every edge of the estate.

In 1415, Amirah Jenane had her wedding in this very hall, where dignitaries from neighboring kingdoms like Kingdom of Windenburg, Grand Duchy of Champ-les-sims, and even norther simlandic kingdoms were invited to attend.

Today, the hall of Jenane becomes an exhibition hall that displays the collections of Amirah Jenane, where centuries-old potteries from different parts of the world can be seen, showing the Amirah's love for future generations who visits the castle.

Also, just like Amirah Jenane, you can experience becoming an Emirate royal by having your wedding in this hall too, by arranging the dates from the Museum's website.

The Emir's Exhibition

On the second floor of the main keep, you can find an exhibition of the Emir Jabar II's personal belongings such as weapons, books, and tapestries.

Pieces like the Emir's silver sword crafted by a Ravenwood master blacksmith, or the Emir's Gunpowder-powered broom crafted by a Glimmerbrook 15th century famed gunsmith-warlock is diplayed in this room.

The Azure Sanctum

In the castle's subterrane, is a breathtaking hall called the "Azure Sanctum", a hall with and endless arrangement of pillars and arches adorned in the finest lazuardi tiles and gemstones, with a fountain that had been running for centuries without the help of electricity.

According to historians' records, the Azure Sanctum used to be a place where the Royals would lounge during the hot Tartosan summer, as this room is proven to be -5 to -7 degrees celcius cooler than the air outside.

Now, the Azure sanctum serves as an exhibition hall for wall decorations and the famed "Scales of righteousness", a golden scale used widely in the Tartosan Emirate's Al-Simharan justice system in the medieval era.

Technical Informations

Packs used

Location

Place Almanara Castle here.

Download via SFS

Almanara Castle (MUSEUM) : Download

Almanara Castle (WEDDING VENUE) : Download

Follow below post to learn more of Almanara Castle's History!.

Sul Sul!,

Lesmana Enteprise Co., Ltd.

[kimbasprite]

Whew! This set took a lot of tweaking, but I really love how they came out! 🤩 This is another 10 generation challenge, this time it's the Solar System Legacy Challenge by @ginovasims

Graphics by me! 🖤 I had to paraphrase a few of them for the sake of space, but hopefully it's still clear. For more information on my Sims 4 graphics, check out my FAQ here.

What challenge should I make graphics for next??

[salman-bloch]

Sim Card Data Recovery, SIM Card Reader Software and SIM Card Clone Tool

SimCardData.info offers SIM card data recovery, cloning, and management solutions, providing software and tools to recover deleted data, read SIM card information, and duplicate data for backup or transfer purposes.

[danishbaloch-13]

How to do your SIM Owner Details with Live Finder Net Live Finder Net is a powerful online tool that allows users to find out detailed information about the owner of a SIM card. https://simcalldata.com/

[olomaya]

Private Clinic - Optometry (+ updates)

So this is the optometry portion of my Private Clinic mod (eventual series). I had hoped to get this out much earlier but just lost interest/motivation but I managed to eke through with hours of 2024 to spare. 😅 Procrastination and I are long-time friends so I'm pretty proud of myself -- the old me would have just dumped this project and moved on to some new shiny. That's not to say that I didn't but at least this time I came back to it!

What this does:

Adds the ability for licensed doctors (see private clinic for details) to run an optometry clinic and treat patients.

Creates astigmatism and a couple of other eye diseases for Sims

Adds update to the clinic system allowing you to set office hours as a doctor, or make appointments as patients, track billing, income and expenses, among other new features

A few updates to the Private Clinic Psychiatry module such as more buffs added that can be treated and being able to use the main controller's payment system.

There is A LOT of information so please read through the documentation (there's two, a new one for the PC core features and one just for optometry) before using and bug reporting. This is a scheduled post (I'm currently under a table somewhere eating grapes) so please don't DM me with any bug reports. Instead, please log it here. If you see the same issue you're experiencing already logged, then just add your name or number to the "I have it too" column.

DOWNLOADS:

Private Clinic main files - Please sort the files list by date so you can see the 5 files which have been updated/added for you to download. You NEED the MAIN file, MaladyManager and prescription objects to run any of the modules. The rest depends on which features you want.

Private Clinic Optometry Module

Private Clinic Psychiatry Module update

Credits and thanks to all the wonderful cc creators whose objects were made of use in this mod:

@aroundthesims (of course), the exam chair and eye chart from this amazing hospital set by Hekate999, Lavoieri, Moonskin93 for the contact lenses, Syboulette for the actual contact lenses, and the true to their name simcredible designs for the eyeglass rack.

Thanks to @simsdeogloria for helping me test this mod.

If you have any issues, please do log them. And if you can't use the log, please let me know!

Happy New Year!

[littlemssam]

!Important Warning!

These Days some Mods containing Malware have been uploaded on various Sites.

The Sims After Dark Discord Server has posted the following Info regarding the Issue:

+++

Malware Update: What We Know Now To recap, here are the mods we know for sure were affected by the recent malware outbreak: "Cult Mod v2" uploaded to ModTheSims by PimpMySims (impostor account) "Social Events - Unlimited Time" uploaded to CurseForge by MySims4 (single-use account) "Weather and Forecast Cheat Menu" uploaded to The Sims Resource by MSQSIMS (hacked, real account) "Seasons Cheats Menu" uploaded to The Sims Resource by MSQSIMS (hacked, real account)

Due to this malware using an exe file, we believe that anyone using a Mac or Linux device is completely unaffected by this.

If the exe file was downloaded and executed on your Windows device, it has likely stolen a vast amount of your data and saved passwords from your operating system, your internet browser (Chrome, Edge, Opera, Firefox, and more all affected), Discord, Steam, Telegram, and certain crypto wallets. Thank you to anadius for decompiling the exe.

To quickly check if you have been compromised, press Windows + R on your keyboard to open the Run window. Enter %AppData%/Microsoft/Internet Explorer/UserData in the prompt and hit OK. This will open up the folder the malware was using. If there is a file in this folder called Updater.exe, you have unfortunately fallen victim to the malware. We are unware at this time if the malware has any function which would delete the file at a later time to cover its tracks.

To quickly remove the malware from your computer, Overwolf has put together a cleaner program to deal with it. This program should work even if you downloaded the malware outside of CurseForge. Download SimsVirusCleaner.exe from their github page linked here and run it. Once it has finished, it will give you an output about whether any files have been removed.

+++

For more Information please check the Sims After Dark Server News Channel! Or here https://scarletsrealm.com/malware-mod-information/

TwistedMexi made a Mod to help detect & block such Mods in the Future: https://www.patreon.com/posts/98126153

CurseForge took actions and added mechanics to prevent such Files to be uploaded, so downloading there should be safe.

In general be careful, where and what you download, and do not download my Mods at any other Places than my own Sites and my CurseForge Page.

[f1shart]

thinking about buzz beating up the curious brothers again. like what do you mean

but buzz is older than them?? time to dissect this (and by that i mean overly complicate it!!)

Making Sense of Buzz Grunt Beating the Shit Out of the Curious Brothers (and Loki)

I went into this assuming that, considering how old Buzz is, him beating up the Curious brothers + Loki as a teenager was statistically impossible, especially considering their age in actual human years—but was I wrong? Is it actually possible that Buzz did fight them within the time he spent as a teenager?

First, some supporting information.

Age Conversions Based on Adult Lifestage

Buzz: Day 14 or 43 years old Pascal: Day 10 or 38 years old Loki: Day 9 or 36 years old Vidcund: Day 6 or 32 years old Lazlo: Day 1 or 25 years old

These aren't even my own age headcanons for them (except Buzz's which is surprisingly accurate), just calculations. If you want to know how I got them then feel free to ask 😇

Evidence Provided by Memories

As seen in the picture, Buzz fought everyone "as soon as he aged up." However, it's possible he just has no memories of early teenhood.

Pascal similarly gained the memory as soon as he aged up. This idea is more plausible with him because he was accepted into private high school after the fact. Sure, in gameplay, this can happen as late as the last day as a teenager, but I doubt this is what Maxis was trying to convey since they literally handpicked these memories. Meaning: Buzz beat him up in middle school…?

Loki's only teen memory is losing the fight.

According to the Sims Wiki, Vidcund has no memory of Buzz beating him up (how hard did he hit him?)

Similar to Loki and Pascal, Lazlo's first memory as a teenager is getting beat up by Buzz.

Is This Possible In Normal Gameplay?

Disregarding any other family memories that arose around the time (I do NOT want to try to decipher the entire Curious timeline), the fight memories are in fact possible with their Sim ages.

The teen lifespan in The Sims 2 is 15 days long. Buzz is 4 days older than Pascal, 5 days older than Loki, 8 days older than Vidcund, and 13 days older than Lazlo.

Ensuring that everyone still falls within the teen lifestage, I made a table of the earliest and latest possible ages everyone could have been when Buzz attacked:

Converting their teen days into human years, Buzz either beat them all up as an 18 year old OR slowly picked them off until age 17 which is right before he kissed Lyla. None of this, however, is possible based on the initial age calculations.

Buzz's Attacks Based On the Adult Age Conversions

Buzz is 5 years older than Pascal, 7 years older than Loki, 11 years older than Vidcund, and 18 years older than Lazlo. There are two ways we can interpret their memories: either the Curious brothers + Loki were teenagers when Buzz attacked, or Buzz was a teenager when he started attacking them.

On the basis that Buzz is still a teenager, and assuming each fight happened in close proximity to one another, he specifically had to have been 18 years old when each one happened. This makes Pascal a 13 year old, Loki an 11 year old, Vidcund a 7 year old, and Lazlo…a newborn. ☠️ Alternatively, Buzz may have started younger and continued fighting until 18, the only teen year he could have possibly encountered Lazlo in.

If that seems implausible, then maybe Buzz wasn't a teenager and instead beat the boys up as soon as they turned thirteen. This would make him 18 for Pascal, 20 for Loki, 24 for Vidcund, and 31 for Lazlo. (Side note: Tank and Ripp would have been born by then.)

Conclusion

Regardless of whether you base it on Buzz been a teen or the victims being teens, him beating up Lazlo looks pretty bad. And if you go by gameplay rules, everything flows surprisingly well. According to normal gameplay AND real-life age conversions, Buzz is a big meanie who beat up at least one kid as a legal adult, at least with the age conversion system I used…

Me personally, I think he was college-aged when he started bullying them. (Or maybe they attacked him? Plot twist.) Of course, what I discussed weren't the only possibilities, but they should give a good idea of how things actually went… and maybe they can inspire your own headcanons! ^_^

this is such a useless pseudo-essay LMFAOO

[nornities]

How to use DXVK with The Sims 3

Have you seen this post about using DXVK by Criisolate? But felt intimidated by the sheer mass of facts and information?

@desiree-uk and I compiled a guide and the configuration file to make your life easier. It focuses on players not using the EA App, but it might work for those just the same. It’s definitely worth a try.

Adding this to your game installation will result in a better RAM usage. So your game is less likely to give you Error 12 or crash due to RAM issues. It does NOT give a huge performance boost, but more stability and allows for higher graphics settings in game.

The full guide behind the cut. Let me know if you also would like it as PDF.

Happy simming!

Disclaimer and Credits

Desiree and I are no tech experts and just wrote down how we did this. Our ability to help if you run into trouble is limited. So use at your own risk and back up your files!

We both are on Windows 10 and start the game via TS3W.exe, not the EA App. So your experience may differ.

This guide is based on our own experiments and of course criisolate’s post on tumblr:  https://www.tumblr.com/criisolate/749374223346286592/ill-explain-what-i-did-below-before-making-any

This guide is brought to you by Desiree-UK and Norn.

Compatibility

Note: This will conflict with other programs that “inject” functionality into your game so they may stop working. Notably

Reshade

GShade

Nvidia Experience/Nvidia Inspector/Nvidia Shaders

RivaTuner Statistics Server

It does work seamlessly with LazyDuchess’ Smooth Patch.

LazyDuchess’ Launcher: unknown

Alder Lake patch: does conflict. One user got it working by starting the game by launching TS3.exe (also with admin rights) instead of TS3W.exe. This seemed to create the cache file for DXVK. After that, the game could be started from TS3W.exe again. That might not work for everyone though.

A word on FPS and V-Sync

With such an old game it’s crucial to cap framerate (FPS). This is done in the DXVK.conf file. Same with V-Sync.

You need

a text editor (easiest to use is Windows Notepad)

to download DXVK, version 2.3.1 from here: https://github.com/doitsujin/DXVK/releases/tag/v2.3.1 Extract the archive, you are going to need the file d3d9.dll from the x32 folder

the configuration file DXVK.conf from here: https://github.com/doitsujin/DXVK/blob/master/DXVK.conf. Optional: download the edited version with the required changes here.

administrator rights on your PC

to know your game’s installation path (bin folder) and where to find the user folder

a tiny bit of patience :)

First Step: Backup

Backup your original Bin folder in your Sims 3 installation path! The DXVK file may overwrite some files! The path should be something like this (for retail): \Program Files (x86)\Electronic Arts\The Sims 3\Game\Bin (This is the folder where also GraphicsRule.sgr and the TS3W.exe and TS3.exe are located.)

Backup your options.ini in your game’s user folder! Making the game use the DXVK file will count as a change in GPU driver, so the options.ini will reset once you start your game after installation. The path should be something like this: \Documents\Electronic Arts\The Sims 3 (This is the folder where your Mods folder is located).

Preparations

Make sure you run the game as administrator. You can check that by right-clicking on the icon that starts your game. Go to Properties > Advanced and check the box “Run as administrator”. Note: This will result in a prompt each time you start your game, if you want to allow this application to make modifications to your system. Click “Yes” and the game will load.

2. Make sure you have the DEP settings from Windows applied to your game.

Open the Windows Control Panel.

Click System and Security > System > Advanced System Settings.

On the Advanced tab, next to the Performance heading, click Settings.

Click the Data Execution Prevention tab.

Select 'Turn on DEP for all programs and services except these”:

Click the Add button, a window to the file explorer opens. Navigate to your Sims 3 installation folder (the bin folder once again) and add TS3W.exe and TS3.exe.

Click OK. Then you can close all those dialog windows again.

Setting up the DXVK.conf file

Open the file with a text editor and delete everything in it. Then add these values:

d3d9.textureMemory = 1

d3d9.presentInterval = 1

d3d9.maxFrameRate = 60

d3d9.presentInterval enables V-Sync,d3d9.maxFrameRate sets the FrameRate. You can edit those values, but never change the first line (d3d9.textureMemory)!

The original DXVK.conf contains many more options in case you would like to add more settings.

A. no Reshade/GShade

Setting up DXVK

Copy the two files d3d9.dll and DXVK.conf into the Bin folder in your Sims 3 installation path. This is the folder where also GraphicsRule.sgr and the TS3W.exe and TS3.exe are located. If you are prompted to overwrite files, please choose yes (you DID backup your folder, right?)

And that’s basically all that is required to install.

Start your game now and let it run for a short while. Click around, open Buy mode or CAS, move the camera.

Now quit without saving. Once the game is closed fully, open your bin folder again and double check if a file “TS3W.DXVK-cache” was generated. If so – congrats! All done!

Things to note

Heads up, the game options will reset! So it will give you a “vanilla” start screen and options.

Don’t worry if the game seems to be frozen during loading. It may take a few minutes longer to load but it will load eventually.

The TS3W.DXVK-cache file is the actual cache DXVK is using. So don’t delete this! Just ignore it and leave it alone. When someone tells to clear cache files – this is not one of them!

Update Options.ini

Go to your user folder and open the options.ini file with a text editor like Notepad.

Find the line “lastdevice = “. It will have several values, separated by semicolons. Copy the last one, after the last semicolon, the digits only. Close the file.

Now go to your backup version of the Options.ini file, open it and find that line “lastdevice” again. Replace the last value with the one you just copied. Make sure to only replace those digits!

Save and close the file.

Copy this version of the file into your user folder, replacing the one that is there.

Things to note:

If your GPU driver is updated, you might have to do these steps again as it might reset your device ID again. Though it seems that the DXVK ID overrides the GPU ID, so it might not happen.

How do I know it’s working?

Open the task manager and look at RAM usage. Remember the game can only use 4 GB of RAM at maximum and starts crashing when usage goes up to somewhere between 3.2 – 3.8 GB (it’s a bit different for everybody).

So if you see values like 2.1456 for RAM usage in a large world and an ongoing save, it’s working. Generally the lower the value, the better for stability.

Also, DXVK will have generated its cache file called TS3W.DXVK-cache in the bin folder. The file size will grow with time as DXVK is adding stuff to it, e.g. from different worlds or savegames. Initially it might be something like 46 KB or 58 KB, so it’s really small.

Optional: changing MemCacheBudgetValue

MemCacheBudgetValue determines the size of the game's VRAM Cache. You can edit those values but the difference might not be noticeable in game. It also depends on your computer’s hardware how much you can allow here.

The two lines of seti MemCacheBudgetValue correspond to the high RAM level and low RAM level situations. Therefore, theoretically, the first line MemCacheBudgetValue should be set to a larger value, while the second line should be set to a value less than or equal to the first line.

The original values represent 200MB (209715200) and 160MB (167772160) respectively. They are calculated as 200x1024x1024=209175200 and 160x1024x1024=167772160.

Back up your GraphicsRules.sgr file! If you make a mistake here, your game won’t work anymore.

Go to your bin folder and open your GraphicsRules.sgr with a text editor.

Search and find two lines that set the variables for MemCacheBudgetValue.

Modify these two values to larger numbers. Make sure the value in the first line is higher or equals the value in the second line. Examples for values: 1073741824, which means 1GB 2147483648 which means 2 GB. -1 (minus 1) means no limit (but is highly experimental, use at own risk)

Save and close the file. It might prompt you to save the file to a different place and not allow you to save in the Bin folder. Just save it someplace else in this case and copy/paste it to the Bin folder afterwards. If asked to overwrite the existing file, click yes.

Now start your game and see if it makes a difference in smoothness or texture loading. Make sure to check RAM and VRAM usage to see how it works.

You might need to change the values back and forth to find the “sweet spot” for your game. Mine seems to work best with setting the first value to 2147483648 and the second to 1073741824.

Uninstallation

Delete these files from your bin folder (installation path):

d3d9.dll

DXVK.conf

TS3W.DXVK-cache

And if you have it, also TS3W_d3d9.log

if you changed the values in your GraphicsRule.sgr file, too, don’t forget to change them back or to replace the file with your backed up version.

OR

delete the bin folder and add it from your backup again.

B. with Reshade/GShade

Follow the steps from part A. no Reshade/Gshade to set up DXVK.

If you are already using Reshade (RS) or GShade (GS), you will be prompted to overwrite files, so choose YES. RS and GS may stop working, so you will need to reinstall them.

Whatever version you are using, the interface shows similar options of which API you can choose from (these screenshots are from the latest versions of RS and GS).

Please note: 

Each time you install and uninstall DXVK, switching the game between Vulkan and d3d9, is essentially changing the graphics card ID again, which results in the settings in your options.ini file being repeatedly reset.

ReShade interface

Choose – Vulcan

Click next and choose your preferred shaders.

Hopefully this install method works and it won't install its own d3d9.dll file.

If it doesn't work, then choose DirectX9 in RS, but you must make sure to replace the d3d9.dll file with DXVK's d3d9.dll (the one from its 32bit folder, checking its size is 3.86mb.)

GShade interface

Choose –           

Executable Architecture: 32bit

Graphics API: DXVK

Hooking: Normal Mode

GShade is very problematic, it won't work straight out of the box and the overlay doesn't show up, which defeats the purpose of using it if you can't add or edit the shaders you want to use.

Check the game's bin folder, making sure the d3d9.dll is still there and its size is 3.86mb - that is DXVK's dll file.

If installing using the DXVK method doesn't work, you can choose the DirectX method, but there is no guarantee it works either.

The game will not run with these files in the folder:

d3d10core.dll

d3d11.dll

dxgi.dll

If you delete them, the game will start but you can't access GShade! It might be better to use ReShade.

Some Vulcan and DirectX information, if you’re interested:

Vulcan is for rather high end graphic cards but is backward compatible with some older cards. Try this method with ReShade or GShade first.

DirectX is more stable and works best with older cards and systems. Try this method if Vulcan doesn't work with ReShade/GShade in your game – remember to replace the d3d9.dll with DXVK's d3d9.dll.

For more information on the difference between Vulcan and DirectX, see this article:

https://www.howtogeek.com/884042/vulkan-vs-DirectX-12/

[oddlydescriptive]

Reset, Chapter 11

Series Masterlist

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

You don’t know if working with world champions is always like this, or if it’s just a Verstappen thing, or if he’s just a special breed of asshole- but God help the people who have to see Max Verstappen every day. You’d probably kill yourself.

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

The morning had been strange. Not hostile. Not loud. Just... off. Max hadn’t spoken to you beyond that cold little dismissal when he decided he’d be taking the first run, hadn’t so much as looked at you since. But you told yourself it didn’t mean anything. Some drivers were like that- singular, focused, not particularly social. Maybe he was jet-lagged. Maybe something at home was off. He wasn’t rude, not exactly. Just... unavailable. It was fine. He’s a world champion. He’s allowed to be tightly wound. You’re just here to do your job.

Still, something about the afternoon settled differently.

There was a current beneath the day, low and thin and sharp, the kind of unease that clung to the back of your neck like static. It wasn’t anything specific. Just a hum. A pressure. A presence. Something sharp tucked into the edges of every exchange that didn’t quite belong, like a stone in your boot- small enough to ignore until it wasn’t. You kept feeling it on your skin, just behind your ear, like breath. That inexplicable weight that made you check your posture, your volume, your notes twice before speaking.

The problem was you.

You told yourself that was ridiculous. Paranoid. Entirely self-centered to even think. There’s no evidence for it. He hasn’t even spoken to you directly- which is fine. Max wasn’t doing anything to you. Not really. You barely interacted. He was a world champion. You were a dev driver with a three-month contract and a pile of debt. You weren’t important enough to be hated. The idea of some kind of vendetta was absurd. Hilarious, even.

Was. Key word, that one.

Because it had started small.

When you got the call to prep for your run, you had expected to hear GP in your ear. He was the only true race engineer on the wall today, and this braking system was half-baked at best. Standard protocol said put your most experienced guy on the radio.

But it was Christian’s voice instead. “Hang tight,” he said, too casual. “Max wants GP to go over some things with him. We’ll find someone to run your comms.”

It caught you off guard, but you didn’t flinch. Not out loud. Of course Max wanted GP to go over that dogshit data, find some way- any way- to improve on it. It was his team. His program. No one was being slighted. You’d told yourself that twice before Christian even asked, “Any preference?”

“Put Gavin on,” you’d said. “He’s done some of the sim work with me.”

It wasn’t a problem. It worked. Gavin was bright and eager, and you two had already found a rhythm. Still, there was a tiny tug behind your ribs as you rolled toward the track. You’d told yourself it was nothing. Just a shift. A reshuffling. The kind of thing that naturally happened when someone more important stepped into the room.

Strike one. But you were still giving him the benefit of the doubt.

The laps had gone well. Not flashy, not dramatic- but clean. You didn’t drive to impress. You drove to inform. And it worked. You found the edge of the system’s instability, adjusted your style, made the system come to you. Lap after lap, you gave clean data. Gavin worked alongside you like a real engineer, asking sharp questions, tracking every delta. You brought the car in, rattled off notes, sometimes with your hand literally shoved into the brake casing right beside Alessandro’s. It was fast, dirty work. Real work.

Then back in.

Then out again.

Then back in.

It wasn’t perfect, but by the time you stepped out of the car, the system wasn’t dragging nearly as bad. It was rapidly approaching not-dogshit territory, even, if you were feeling generous. The team had done well. You’d done well. You knew it in your bones.

Max got in next. Grip from the jump. Smoother transitions. Consistent laps. Not fast, but stable- good data. When he came back in, his tone over the radio was easy, calm. “Good changes,” he said. “Front balance is better. Rear’s still loose, but predictable.” In the huddle, he gave a quick nod to Alessandro. “Appreciate the work. Gavin, good notes. GP, thanks for the prep. This is getting closer.”

He didn’t look at you. Didn’t thank you. Didn’t so much as acknowledge that you’d been in the car at all. You stood there- still zipped to your neck, still flushed, still holding the note sheet he’d used without knowing. You told yourself he probably didn’t realize. Maybe he thought Gavin had done the legwork. Maybe he just missed it. Maybe it wasn’t personal. Just tunnel vision. Just focus.

You told yourself these things.

And yet.

Strike two.

The debrief was where it truly started to slide. The folding table was the same mess it always was- printouts, water bottles, someone’s stray protein bar melting in the corner. You took your usual seat, corner spot, notes in hand, ready to walk through the flow of your runs.

Max went first. Flat, clean terminology. No fluff. Then GP. Then Gavin with a note about load transfer. Then a pause. You leaned in, hand brushing the page. “I think the lateral grip improvement post-tweak four is- ” 

“I think…” Max cut in like you hadn’t spoken. Talked right through you. Didn’t glance over. 

You blinked. Sat back. Told yourself maybe he hadn’t heard.

Then Alessandro asked a question about wear across the stints. You had clean data on that. You tried again. “I actually noted- ”

“But the feel it has on an approach…” He spoke over you again- an entirely different train of thought. Louder. Deliberate.

This time, you didn’t make excuses. You didn’t try again. You just folded your notes slowly, the page edge crisp under your fingers, and sat up straighter. “Well,” you said, tone bright, razor-clean, “since Max has limited time with the dev team today, I’m happy to let him take the floor. I can always catch up with y’all at the factory.”

Max just kept talking. Like you didn’t exist. And still- you told yourself it didn’t have to mean anything.

Maybe it was just ego. Or pressure. Or some outdated sense of hierarchy that let men pretend rudeness was efficiency. It didn’t feel good. But it wasn’t the worst you’d been through.

Not the first time you’d been interrupted. Not the first time a man in a meeting talked over you. Not the first time you swallowed it and smiled like it didn’t scrape going down.

Strike three. But you still hadn’t said the word targeted. Not out loud. Not even to yourself.

You could still pretending it was about something else.

But now? Now? Right now?

Your right hand is still curled around the door handle when you see them. Right there. Exactly where you left them. Exactly how you left them.

Your fireproofs.

Folded neatly on top of your bag. Sleeves crossed. Neck rolled down. Still holding the bend from where your fingers pressed into the fabric that morning. Your mouth goes dry. No. No, no. That’s not possible.

You had checked. You know you did. Stared into the open bag, flipped through your gear like a frantic traveler getting accosted by a TSA agent. You’d stood right here, right there, trying to remember if you’d somehow left them in the trailer or the laundry or the van you had hitched a ride over in with the dev team.

They were gone. You know they were gone. You feel something cold spread behind your ribs. Because this? This is not the same as losing something. This isn’t absentmindedness or a misstep or a rookie mistake. This is a message.

I can fuck with you just because I want to.

You don’t move. Not right away. You just stare at the folded bundle of fabric like it might blink back. The silence buzzes in your ears, heavy and loud and flat. You scan the room. Nothing’s out of place. Your civvies are where you left them. Your bag hasn’t been touched. But the fireproofs... they weren’t here. They weren’t.

And now they are.

You squeeze your eyes shut, just for a second. It would’ve almost been easier if they’d never come back. If they were just... gone. A missing item you could write off. Shit happens. Tracks are chaotic. Things get lost.

But this? This is a ghost. And the worst part is the questions start to stack in your head, one after the other, soft as bruises:

Who else has been in this room? Who knew your kit was missing? Who knew you’d still get in the car anyway? Who needed to see you squirm?

And who the hell else spent the entire day pretending not to see you, not to hear you, not to care if you were there at all?

The answer curls low in your gut. You don’t say his name. Not even to yourself. But you feel it. It hangs in the air like heat off tarmac.

He is arguably the most powerful driver in the world right now.

And you are the girl in the wrong locker room with the missing fireproofs, now neatly folded back into place, like someone’s idea of a sick hazing joke.

Like a warning.

And suddenly, for the first time all day, it doesn’t feel like you’re being paranoid.

It feels like you're in danger.

Not physically. But professionally. Personally. Quietly.

It feels like someone with everything has looked at you- your little crayon contract, your borrowed space, your narrow lane- and decided that even that was too much.

And for a moment, standing there in the stale air of the locker room, that realization doesn’t make you angry.

It just makes you tired.

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

Max has been at the factory more in the last few weeks than he has since his rookie year. Not that anyone’s called him on it. Why would they? He’s winning. He’s dominant. He’s Max Verstappen.

They’d throw a parade if he showed up just to eat breakfast. And sure, maybe it started out circumstantial. First the braking test, then a quick check-in here or there, ‘for morale’, for press. For whatever. They don’t care. It’s RedBull’s castle, and he’s the fucking king. 

Max always shows up for development. Max always cares about next year’s car. Max is serious. Meticulous. It’s the story they’ve always told about him.

Never mind that for most of his career, he’s only showed up when it mattered. Rare visits. Focused feedback. Let the engineers engineer. That’s what they’re there for.

But now? Now he’s here. A lot.

And not because he’s got anything new to offer. Not really. He sits in on meetings he doesn’t need to be in. Nods through debriefs. Watches the same telemetry four times in a row and acts like he's seeing something new.

And absolutely none of this has anything to do with you.

Definitely not.

Not with the way you breeze through the aero department, sharp and direct, arms full of printouts. Not with the way the guys in CFD light up when you bring coffee to your morning meetings, pretending it’s nothing, pretending you’re not already working two hours longer than anyone else before the sun even comes up.

It has nothing to do with the fact that your data notes now arrive in the inbox labeled “priority review.” That Christian calls you by your first name without the usual clipped edge. That a new junior prospect asked you a question in the sim bay and you answered so confidently, like you belonged there, like this was your garage and everyone else was just borrowing space.

It’s not about you.

It’s just... quieter here. Cleaner.

There’s no Kelly, not anymore. No slammed doors. No constant questions that he doesn’t want to answer because he doesn’t know how to form the words. No apartment that feels like an abandoned tomb- silent and echoing, with one toothbrush left by the sink and no towels that smell like her hair.

And sure, maybe it’s easier to stay in another country than deal with the mess he left behind. Maybe it’s simpler to pretend this is about next year’s car, about being a leader, about taking responsibility.

But really?

It’s about control.

Because if Max can’t keep you from being here- if Max has to watch you glide through this place like you belong here, like you’ve always belonged here, then he’s going to be here to control the pace of it. To monitor. To watch every move. To pull every string he can reach. To press every pressure point until you break.

Or at least until you look like you might. You haven’t yet. And he hates you for that. God, he hates you for that.

Max knows he’s not like his father in the way Jos can look at a man and dismantle him in a conversation. Can see five moves ahead, speak in riddles, lay traps with a smile. Chess with real lives. Psychological warfare as fluently as breathing.

Max didn’t inherit that part.

He’s reactive. Blunt-force. He knows it. And as much as he hates to admit it, he’s not as good at the long game. Not like Jos. He doesn’t understand people the way Jos does. But he’s not stupid.

He knows he can’t do the fireproofs thing again. Not right away.

That had been reckless. Bold, maybe. Stupid, definitely. It had worked- rattled you, shook your confidence, even if you hadn’t said a word- but it was too obvious. Too risky. He can’t keep pulling stunts like that and expect no one to notice. Even he knows that.

He has to be smarter. So- he starts slow. Testing. Not you, exactly. Everyone else. The team. The factory. The threshold for what people will let him get away with.

He has a hunch it’s a lot.

So- it starts with your desk. Nothing major. Just petty. Just small.

A paper out of order. A USB cable unplugged. A sticky note taken and returned half an hour later, just crooked enough to bother you. Your pens turned the wrong direction. The plastic tab on your headphones flipped up instead of down. Nothing that matters. Just enough to make you pause.

Just enough to fuck with your rhythm.

Just enough to make him feel better.

Not better like good. Not like he’s resolved anything or found peace or grown up or moved on. No, not that kind of better. Just a split second of relief. A little satisfaction curled behind his ribs, like taking off tight shoes.

He doesn’t touch anything important. Yet. Not the data sets. Not the signed-off revisions. Not the feedback you leave overnight for the engineers to sort through in the morning.

Just…little things.

Things that make you stop and blink. Things that make you wonder if you’re tired. If you’re slipping. If maybe you are stretched too thin.

You notice.

You always notice. Max sees it- the pause, the half-second of uncertainty before your fingers move, before you reset whatever he’s tweaked and go on like nothing happened. Like it’s not worth making noise about. Like it’s beneath you.

He hates that.

Hates the way you recover.

Hates the way you don’t make a fuss.

Every time he gets a rise out of you- a twitch, a frown, a blink- he thinks, finally. But then you smooth it over and get back to work like he’s not even a factor, like none of this touches you, and the pressure behind his ribs starts building again.

So he keeps going. Your folders- swapped. Your chair- too low. The SIM rig- just a little off. Gremlins. Glitches. Ghosts in the machine.

Except you know they’re not. And somewhere inside, Max knows you know. But he also knows you’ll never say a word. Not about this. Not yet. And that’s what keeps him coming back.  Because this isn’t a strategy. It’s a compulsion. It’s a way to bleed some of the pressure before it breaks him in half.

He’s not his father. He can’t manipulate. Can’t scheme. Can’t trap you in a perfect web and pull the strings until you cry.

But he can erode you. One day at a time.

And no one’s even noticed him yet. Not really. People smile at him the same. They ask about the car. The standings. Laugh at his half-hearted jokes in the break room. He’s still Max Verstappen- unshakable, untouchable, the face of the empire. Nobody blinks when your name doesn’t come up. Nobody asks why you look a little tired. Why your folders are always in your arms instead of on your desk, like you don’t quite trust anything anymore.

Because what is there to stop? A crooked sticky note? A misplaced file? They’re too busy. Too trusting. Too comfortable with the idea that Max Verstappen- nearly two-time world champion, team golden boy- doesn’t have the time or the need to be petty. They don’t realize that pettiness is the point.

So Max stops holding back. If no one’s watching, why bother with caution?

Starts “accidentally” leaving you off email threads. Moves meetings to different rooms and doesn’t update the calendar. You show up late, or worse- don’t show up at all, because you never knew they were happening.

When someone notices, Max tilts his head. “Was she not on the list?”

Mild confusion. Plausible deniability. You’re left apologizing. Again. And not once do you lose your temper. You step into the new conference room like you’d meant to be there all along. Ask for the agenda in that same even, courteous tone. Pull up your notes like they’ve been rehearsed. Slide into your chair with a soft apology and a calm nod, as if this is just part of the job.

And maybe it is, now. You act like it’s fine. Like it happens all the time. (It does.)

He meant for it to sting. To knock you off your balance. To put you in your place- just a little late, a little wrong, a little off-rhythm. But somehow, it stings him. Because it means you were ready.

Not just aware- but prepared. Braced. Armored. As if you’ve built a fortress around your schedule, your reputation, your entire fucking personality- just to deal with him. Like his cruelty is no longer surprising. Like you’ve categorized it. Labeled it. Filed it away in the same drawer as your calendar invites and telemetry notes.

You meet every offense like it’s a weather report: expected. You don’t flinch. Don’t freeze. Don’t raise your voice or roll your eyes or even glance his way. You absorb it, adjust, and keep moving.

It’s starting to piss him off.

Because this isn’t nothing, anymore. He’s doing this. Putting in effort now. It takes time to manufacture the right gaps in communication. To reroute calendar invites, to casually mention a room change at just the right moment that you won’t hear it. To find out which meetings matter most and sabotage just enough to make you look slightly disorganized.

It’s not just pettiness anymore. It’s labor.

And if all that- every cold jab, every careful cut- isn’t doing something to you, then what the fuck is the point?

You’re not ignoring it. He knows you’re not. He sees it in the way you sit a little straighter now. The way you double-check your messages, the way you carry your folders pressed tighter to your chest like armor. He’s gotten under your skin.

But not in the way he wants. You still smile when you talk to people. Still nod politely at him, even. And that- that- drives him insane.

Max thinks the others are starting to see it too.

Not clearly. Not enough to say anything. But there’s a flicker sometimes- a glance passed between engineers, the slight tightening of Christian’s jaw when Max cuts you off mid-sentence. Even GP is quieter than usual, like he’s running the math in his head, trying to determine just how much of this is deliberate, how much is personal.

They’re noticing.

But they’re not stopping him.

And maybe that’s all Max needs to know.

Because noticing and acting are two different things. People see all kinds of shit they never do anything about. Especially when they’re chasing trophies. Especially when the golden goose is laying eggs on schedule.

It’s Japan next. Then Austin. Two races to lock down everything: the drivers’ title, the constructors’. Legacy stuff. Max Verstappen- undeniable. Unstoppable.

And when that kind of noise is in the air- when the entire factory is humming with the urgency of domination, of making history- who’s going to pause the celebration to ask why the junior dev driver always looks like she hasn’t slept? Why she’s always apologizing? Why her sim settings keep getting wiped, her notes misplaced, her name left off just enough invites to mean something?

No one.

Not when their job is to make Max faster. Better. Happier.

All that noise makes a lot of cover.

And Max- he’s nothing if not opportunistic.

He’d actually been annoyed about the overseas leg. Not for the travel, not for the schedule. But because he thought it would let you breathe. Thought you might get rest. Time off. Space away from him. He didn’t like that.

He’d built something back at the factory. A rhythm. A pattern. You, flinching in micro-reactions. You, tired. You, careful with your words. He could feel it tightening around you, like a string wound inch by inch. And now he was supposed to just… go to Japan? Let it all loosen?

It had made him sour. Restless.

Until Christian said it. Offhand, barely worth noting. Not even to him, just to GP, in the car on the way to the hotel. “- and if you need anything from the factory, same as usual. She’s got the emergency line covered.”

Max hadn’t even looked up at first. But then the words had processed. She’s got the emergency line. He blinked. Turned to the window. Felt the heat rise slow and electric in his chest.

The emergency line.

You.

Behind, while the whole circus traveled forward.

On call. Always on call. Of course. Of course you are. Max feels it hit in his chest like the perfect apex.

The phone rings, and you’ll answer. No matter the hour. No matter the timezone. No matter if you’re halfway through a four-hour SIM data stitch or if it’s 3:42 AM and you’re dead asleep. You’ll answer. You’ll have to.

And it’s almost better this way. Because now he can do it without anyone watching. No Christian. No Gavin. No GP narrowing his eyes across the table. Just Max, with a hotel phone, a thin voice of irritation, and a dozen fake reasons to need revised torque mapping or driver fit delta sheets.

Even from half a world away, he still has you. Even from Japan, even from Texas, even from thirty-thousand-fucking-feet-in-the-air- he still owns the lever. Still has access. Still has control.

He’s not going to stop. Not until you lose it. Not until you break. Not until you unravel in a spectacular, public, irreparable way.

Or until someone finally stops him.

But god, he really, really hopes it’s the first one.

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

The jet slices through the sky like it knows it’s carrying royalty.

Max sits stretched out in his seat, one ankle propped on the opposite knee, champagne still drying behind his teeth. The cabin hums soft and steady around him- low lighting, expensive silence, the kind that costs more per hour than most people make in a month. There’s a plate of untouched fruit on the tray beside him. A pair of noise-canceling headphones he isn’t using.

And beneath his seat, he taps the side of a cheap plastic bag with the toe of his trainers. Just once. Light. The contents rattle softly, like a secret.

Anyone who looked at him right now would assume he’s glowing from the double-title sweep. His second drivers’ championship in the bag. The constructors finally secured in Texas. The season sewn shut with a bow made of pure dominance.

And yeah- sure. That’s part of it. Winning always burns clean. But there’s something else humming under his skin. Something sharper. Meaner.

Texas had been a fucking masterclass.

He could barely sit still on the podium, couldn’t focus during the post-race interviews, because all he wanted was a readout of your emergency call log. Every time you answered. Every time you picked up on the first ring. Every time your voice cracked, just a little, from being dragged out of sleep to deal with another one of his so-called crises.

God, it had been perfect.

The way you’d sounded on the phone in the hours before the race. Voice hoarse. Barely keeping up. Answering every call like it might be your last thread of usefulness, like you knew you’d be crucified for missing one.

He’d paced his hotel room with the phone tucked under his jaw, fake questions and useless requests spilling from his mouth while the Texas sun came up over the blinds. Could you reprocess the tire data? Could you double-check the sim overlays? Could you recompile that setup file you both knew was already fine?

You had done it all.

Every call, every time. No complaint. No hesitation.

He didn’t even have to say much- just enough to get you out of bed. Just enough to make your heart rate spike. Just enough to keep you from falling fully back asleep before he called again. Nine times. Between eleven and six, your time.

Borderline Geneva Convention shit.

And the best part?

You didn’t say a word about it. Not to him. Not to Christian. Not to anyone. But he knows it fucked with you. He knows it landed.

Max can practically taste it. That need to see. The slow-fuse thrill of imagining what he’s done to you. The bags under your eyes. The brittle smile. The tremble in your fingers. Maybe, if he was really lucky, the fray in your voice when you tried to pretend you were fine.

Beautiful. He’s practically buzzing in his seat now. Almost giddy.

Because he’s going to see you again soon- back at Milton Keynes. Just a small sponsor celebration, nothing wild. Most of the team’s still in transit, logistics buried in crates somewhere between Texas and Mexico. But you’ll be there. You always are.

And he’s bringing you a gift.

Well. Your gift.

Because beneath his seat, nestled in a plain plastic bag, is the next play.

Six cans of Diet Coke.

American Diet Coke.

He wouldn’t have even noticed it, if Gavin hadn’t made a whole thing of it at the end of the weekend. “She begged for it,” he’d laughed with one of the teardown guys, hauling the six-pack from his carry-on. “Said she can’t live without it. Euro Coke Light just doesn’t cut it.”

Max hadn’t even needed to ask who is ‘she.’ He’d just smiled.

And later, when Gavin left it sitting unattended in the chaos of re-packing, Max had calmly scooped it up so smooth it didn’t even register. Quiet. Painless. Now, he rolls one of the cans beneath his palm. Cold. Ribbed aluminum.

Everything you want. Everything he doesn’t need. God, he can’t wait to drink it in front of you. Slow. Casual.  He’s going to walk into that break room and sit down across from you like it’s nothing. Like you’re just coworkers. Like he didn’t spend all week carving the flesh out of your spine and waiting for you to break. 

He’ll pop the tab with one hand. Let it hiss like punctuation. Smile like he’s being friendly. Lift the can to his lips and take the slowest, laziest sip of his life while you watch- while you sit there and realize, right there in real time, exactly what the fuck is happening.

What’s he going to say if you call him out? It’s just soda. What, are you going to cry about a Diet Coke? 

He rolls the can in his hand now, still beneath the seat, still unopened. Cold and perfect. The condensation dampening the edge of the bag. It’s nothing. It’s everything. You’re so close.

He can feel it, humming like voltage beneath his ribs. The break is coming. It has to be. The unraveling. The part where the polished, press-trained, infuriatingly professional version of you finally cracks wide open and shows him what’s underneath.

You’ve held out longer than he thought you would. Weeks. Months. But the threads are fraying now.

And Max? Max is giddy. He wants to see it. Wants to taste it. Wants to feel the air shift when you finally snap- when the smile slips and the mask crumbles and the fire comes roaring out.

He deserves this.

After everything.

After Kelly.

After the silence in his apartment- the kind that doesn’t just sit still but echoes, bounces off the marble and glass like a scream he’s too tired to make. After her clothes disappeared in the over a race weekend and the toothbrush by the sink went dry. After the reporters started sniffing around. After he stopped answering the phone because he didn’t have the words- or worse, because he did, and they were all the wrong ones.

After the shame.

The rage.

The hollow fucking nothing of being exactly who he was supposed to be- world champion, golden boy, living proof of the ‘brutal, but it works’ Verstappen doctrine- and still being so deeply, gut-twistingly, viscerally, miserable.

And then there’s you.

You, with your press-polished voice and your humble little nods, your fucking notebooks and 80-hour weeks and the way the entire goddamn factory seems to orbit just a little toward you when you enter a room. You, who look at Christian when you talk like you belong in that seat, like your notes are gospel and your presence is earned. You, who Jos talks about like you were born from some higher stock, like you’re what he wants to see in a driver.

You, who didn’t fall apart.

Not when you got shuffled off the grid. Not when he turned the full weight of his pettiness and cruelty on you. Not when he spent weeks dragging you across the coals of your own job, picking at you like a scab, waiting- begging- for you to bleed.

And still. You smile. You hold it. You act like you’re better than him.

Maybe you are. But he can’t accept that. Because if you’re as perfect, composed, untouchable as they all seem to believe- then what does that make him? What’s the excuse for everything he is? For everything he’s not?

So no. No, you don’t get to be the exception.

He needs to see it. Needs proof. That you’re not who you pretend to be. That under all the polish and posture, you’re just as sick as he is. Worse, preferably. That you’re human. Ugly. Flawed. Wrong. That you don’t deserve the soft words and familiarity you think you’ve earned. That people should shut the fuck up about you already.

And if the only thing in this whole joyless, champagne-drenched, hollowed-out circus that still makes him feel anything at all is watching you crack- watching you lose your shit in front of the people who think you walk on water- then that’s what he’s going to take.

He deserves something. And if it’s not peace, not love, not pride- then let it be this.

Let it be your undoing.

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It goes exactly to plan, and that's what pisses him off the most.

Max palms a single can, cold against his fingers, the aluminum slightly damp from the condensation. He slips it into his jacket pocket. Feels it press against his ribs like a loaded chamber.

He doesn’t even hesitate when he walks into the break room.

There you are.

Exactly where you always are when you can spare twenty uninterrupted minutes- tucked into the far corner, lunch balanced neatly in your lap, notes beside you, brows furrowed as you chew and read at the same time.

There’s no one important in the room. But there are just enough people to witness. Just enough to pass the story down the corridors and into the engineers’ lounge and onto the production floor like a cigarette passed hand to hand- did you hear? did you see?

Max doesn’t look at them.

He walks straight to the seat across from you, shrugs off his hoodie, and-  Crack.

The tab on the Diet Coke hisses, sharp and sudden in the quiet room. It echoes. You freeze for just a breath. Just a beat.  You look up. Your eyes flick from the can to his face, and then down again. You don’t say a word.

Max lifts the can, sips. It’s fucking awful. Like licking static. Syrupy and thin. But he swallows it with gusto- because it tastes like fuck you- lets the carbonation burn its way down, and watches.

Waits.

Come on.

Your hand tightens slightly around your fork. There it is.

Come on.

Your posture shifts- not tense, not yet, but alert. Like you’re registering what’s happening, like you know this is a game and you’re just deciding how to play it.

Come on.

But you don’t take the bait.

You just reach for your notes, the motion fluid and practiced. Your voice, when it comes, is measured to perfection. Not too loud. Not too soft. “We should probably get to the Mexico readout,” you say, snapping the lid back on your lunch with a neat little pop. “We’ll be late if we don’t go soon.”

That’s it.

That’s all.

No fury. No outburst. No public tantrum. Just a steady look, one that passes through him like a clean knife, and then back to your salmon or rice or whatever the fuck it is you’re eating like he didn’t just spit in your face.

The can sweats in his hand. His tongue curls in protest.

He takes another sip. It’s worse.

It’s not the taste, not really.

It’s the complete and total nothing he gets from it. He was sure. Positive. This was going to be the moment. The crack. The slip. The humiliation. He pictured it a dozen times- your voice raised, your hands shaking, Diet Coke flying across the table. Something. Anything.

But instead- this. Your back is straight. Your lashes still thick and curled, your lipstick perfect, your movements smooth and mechanical as you stand. A doll, wired too tight.

And maybe that’s why he misses it.

The tremble at the edge of your thumb as you flip a page. The way your jaw flexes when you exhale. The too-quick breath you swallow before you speak. If he had just looked a little harder, a little longer- he would’ve known. You're right there. Fraying. If he had just seen how close, if had just known-

But he doesn’t. He didn’t. He’s too busy trying to choke down the most bitter, unsatisfying drink of his life, stewing in the sting of a victory that doesn’t feel like one. Not even a little.

He trails behind you, the half-finished can of Diet Coke still cold in his hand, the aluminum buzzing against his palm like it might vibrate straight through his bones. Every step is a tick louder inside his skull. Every breath you take might as well be a challenge. He stares at the back of your head like it’s a target, vision narrowing until the only thing in the world is you- and the quiet, seething, insufferable grace with which you carry yourself.

He hates it. Hates you.

How dare you walk like that. How dare you smile. How dare you pretend like you won when he was the one who laid every trap.

And yet you hadn’t tripped.

That’s what’s driving him mad. That he gave you the perfect moment to crack, handed it to you gift-wrapped, and you didn’t take it. That should have been it. You should have screamed. Thrown something. Cried. Given him anything.

But you didn’t. You collected your lunch and asked if he wanted to go to a meeting.

That should’ve been checkmate. He designed it that way. Perfect set-up. Perfect delivery. Right place. Right people. Enough eyes to witness your unraveling, to whisper about it later in the halls. And what did he get?

A fucking smile.

A tight-lipped, pristine little let’s get to the readout smile while you flipped your lunch lid like you didn’t even see him sitting there with your fucking soda in his hand.

This isn’t control. This is defiance.

This is you thinking you’re better than him. Above him. Like you’ve risen above all this petty shit he’s been building, like you’ve already written him off. And he can’t stand it. He can’t stand the idea of you walking through this building, collecting praise and soft looks from Christian, from Alessandro, from everyone- while he’s losing sleep over how to hurt you next. That, more than anything, makes Max want to rip something out by the root.

You reach the door to the conference room first, pulling it open with one smooth, practiced motion. The air inside is cooler, quieter, full of the low hum of laptops and shuffling paper. Alessandro and his team are already seated, thumbing through a printed analysis. GP offers a half-smile from where he’s standing by the projector. Christian sits at the head of the table, scrolling through something on his phone, but he looks up when the two of you walk in.

“You made it,” Christian says mildly, to both of you.

You smile like nothing’s wrong. Like you’re not one whisper away from absolute combustion.

Max grunts something like a greeting, flings himself into the chair beside GP. He tosses the half-empty Diet Coke on the table, lets it roll to a stop just shy of your elbow. You glance at it. He watches for your reaction. Nothing. Just a neat little adjustment of your notes, shifting them away like it’s a piece of trash.

Like he’s a piece of trash. Like all his effort is pointless, and wasted, and it fucking boils Max alive. He leans back in his chair, eyes flicking to Christian, then to Alessandro, waiting for them to speak. But something in the air has shifted, and it’s not just him.

You're quiet. Too quiet.

Your pen rests in your hand like a blade you haven’t chosen to use yet. And Max, for the first time, feels it in his gut: the wrongness. The coiled, humming wrongness of this room. Like the lights are too bright. Like the ceiling’s too low. Like two wild animals have been shoved into a cage and asked to behave.

Christian doesn’t notice. Or pretends not to.

“All right,” he says, opening the meeting. “Let’s go over the Mexico packages, then we’ll do a quick review on the RB19 concepts.”

Max keeps his eyes on you. He watches your hands. Watches the way you smooth your papers. The way you draw a small, even breath before speaking- measured, careful, every word of your project update lined with velvet.

Max watches you with a feverish hunger, that same sick glee curling in his gut. You smooth your notes with the back of your hand, scoot forward with quiet composure, and begin to speak- something about updated tyre wear patterns on high temp tracks, your voice so evenly modulated, Max wouldn’t have believed it if someone told him you’re seconds from snapping in half.

You look... perfect. Hair smooth, papers stacked, expression soft.

Until he ruins it.

He doesn’t even try to be subtle.

“I’m sorry,” Max says, loud and flat, slicing through your update like a blunt knife. “Didn’t we already cover this in Austin? With the real team?”

Your words collapse into silence. Not a stumble. Not a gasp. Just a clean severance mid-sentence. The whole room pauses, startled- GP’s eyes flick up, Alessandro stops tapping his pen. Even Christian looks mildly annoyed, but no one speaks. No one stops him.

You inhale. Not fast. Not loud. Just a small recalibration, like you’re accounting for turbulence. You pivot. Begin again.

And Max does it again.

“I just think maybe we should move on to something relevant,” he says, this time with a shrug, voice maddeningly casual. “We’ve already accounted for this. Unless you’re just repeating yourself for fun.” He knows what he’s doing. He knows it’s a fucking grenade. And still- you don’t raise your voice. You don’t snap. You don’t even look at him.

Not yet.

You go still. Chair tucked under you, spine stiff, eyes locked on the edge of the table. Your fingers close over the top sheet of your printouts. Smooth. Deliberate. One hand slips beneath the stack, pages aligned perfectly against the pad of your thumb. You gather them all like you might excuse yourself. Like you’ve decided to walk away.

Max holds his breath.

Then your head lifts. And you look at him. It’s not a glance. Not a passing irritation.

It’s a fucking furnace behind your eyes. Years of forced poise and practiced smiles and smothered rage lit in an instant. For a moment, Max thinks he sees something almost monstrous beneath your skin- some terrible, searing truth that’s been burning just under the surface this whole time. Your voice when it comes is low and sharp, the kind of quiet people listen to.

“I don’t know what your problem is,” you say, tone like glass about to crack. “If it’s because I’m a woman, because I’m new, or because you just fucking hate me. But- ”

“You’re being emotional,” Max says smoothly, leaning back in his chair.

And the silence that follows is different this time. It’s not discomfort. It’s a goddamn fuse. You drive your finger into the table, hard enough the plastic lip clicks.

“Oh, fuck you,” you breathe- and then your voice breaks wide open. “Emotional? You want emotional?” 

Your volume rises like a siren. You stand, every inch of you charged with lightning, raw and feral in a way no one at the table has ever seen. “I work EIGHTY FUCKING HOURS A WEEK.”

Your voice doesn’t crack. It detonates. Like a starting gun fired into the ceiling, like the first blast of a demolition. Sharp. Violent. Unmistakable. It’s not just the volume- it’s the force of it. It’s the sound of a woman that has had it up-to-fucking-here.

“I don’t leave this building. I don’t sleep. I answer your calls at 3am like I’m your fucking secretary. I redo data because your gut doesn’t like it- even when it’s right. Even when you’re wrong. And I do it without complaint. Because I believe in this team. I believe in this car.”

Your hands are fists, white-knuckled, your papers crushed in your grip like you could tear the numbers out with your bare teeth. Your chest rises in uneven, ragged swells. It looks like something inside you is breaking open- and all the sharpest pieces are aimed directly at Max.

“And I don’t ask for praise. I don’t even ask for fucking respect. All I’ve ever wanted is to do my job. That I am excellent at. And be left the fuck alone.”

You step forward. Not a stumble. Not a lunge. A step. Controlled. Dangerous. The kind that precedes war.

And suddenly, Max sees it. Really sees it. Everything that’s been gnawing at him for months. The thing he couldn’t name but couldn’t stop chasing.

The reason the factory fucking loves you. Why Christian bothers. Why even the most vicious engineers- the ones who chew interns alive and keep a hit list of PR liabilities, who eat steel for breakfast and sleep beneath whiteboards- seem to pause when you speak. Why you’ve made it this far. Why no one’s ever questioned whether you belong here.

Because you're not harmless.

You're not soft.

You’re not even nice.

No. That part- that easy smile, that gracious nod, that perfect press-ready tone- that’s a choice. A tactic. A precision-forged instrument of restraint. You’ve worn it like a fitted suit- polish, poise, pleasantries. That gentle professionalism. The way you listen, nod, follow up. Every smile. Every “no worries.” Every apology that you didn’t owe. It’s a leash you keep on yourself, every second of every day. It’s restraint. It’s a mask. It’s the tightrope walk you’ve mastered so cleanly that no one notices you’re balancing on a blade.

You’re a monster in makeup. Sharp teeth behind lipstick. Rage under silk.

You are exactly the feral, unhinged thing he’s always thought you were.

And now? Now the leash is off.

“But you- ”

Your hand slams the table, full palm, loud enough to rattle the pens and send GP’s rolling to the floor. A sound like gunfire. It echoes in Max’s bones.

“You have made it your goddamn mission to make this unbearable. You’ve fucked with my desk, my data, my hours, my sanity- for what? Because I’m new? Because I’m not from money? Because I’m a fucking woman? I don’t know. And honestly, I don’t fucking care.”

You point at him. Dead-center. Fire in your veins, lightning in your spine. Not trembling. Burning.

“You’re a spoiled, insufferable, nepotism baby who’s never had to fight for anything but a fucking podium in his entire fucking life. That seat? The one that makes you a god? Is built by people like me- engineers, analysts, dev drivers- who work themselves to the edge of collapse to build something that matters. And we don’t even get a fucking thank you.”

No one breathes.

You’re glowing with fury. Radiant. Terrifying.

And beautiful in a way that makes Max feel like he’s holding something raw and livewired in his hands. It’s not love. Not respect. It’s something more visceral. Something like awe.

“And that is fine,” you spit. “I don’t want your thank you. I don’t want your gratitude. I don’t want your fucking approval. I want you to leave me the fuck alone. I want to come in, run my numbers, build my cars, drive my tests, and I want to do the thing I love without you poking at me like a goddamn child lighting ants on fire for fun.” There’s a ringing in the air, the radioactive particles of a nuclear fallout settling around the table.

Max watches you, completely still. Every hair on the back of his neck is standing up. And then- God- his mouth curls. Slow. Savoring. He leans back, that slow smile pulling higher like smoke rising from a lit match.

“Thank you,” he says. Quiet. Measured. Real. 

Because goddamn, he means it. This is what he’s been waiting for.  This- this moment- is everything. The first real thing he’s felt in weeks. You, wild and unmoored and screaming like your throat was made for fury. He’s dizzy with it. Drunk. Absolutely electric with the joy of seeing you finally, finally, fall apart.

You blink.

Then you howl.

“UN-FUCKING-BELIEVABLE!”

It tears out of you like a wolf breaking from a trap- feral, instinctive, lethal.

Your arm swings, and your entire stack of papers becomes shrapnel- exploding against the wall behind Max’s head. One page sticks to the whiteboard. Another flutters down and lands directly on Christian’s lap. You don’t wait. You slam the door. It shakes the frame. The sound echoes through the hallway like the aftermath of an explosion.

Silence. Total. Absolute. 

No one looks at Max. No one dares to. But he’s smiling. Smiling like a man who just got exactly what he wanted.

Oh, yes, he thinks.

That felt good.

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

Series Masterlist HOLY hell, what a chapter. Please please please let me know what you thought!! Also, officially starting a taglist for Reset (I had to look up how to make one), so if you would like to be added, please shoot me an ask and I will get you added. Asking again, too- do you think I need a signature pic for the story or is it fine to upload without media? Teaser for next chapter: Jos, cowboy hat, lots of bs boardroom politics. All your favs. 

[transfloridaresources]

[Photo ID: A person standing in daylight amidst dark smoke holding a large, Palestinian flag that obscures their face. Black, white, green, and red text reads: 'Global Strike. Jan 21-28, 2024.' Then more text reads: 'The strongest governments and weapons manufacturers are supporting this genocide against my people, and you are our only hope! STRIKE globally and call for a ceasefire! Strike, protest, stop the economic movements and make pressure on your countries to stand against this and stop it, if ISRAhell don’t find the financial and weapons support, or governments to hide their crimes they will be forced to stop the genocide! Go to the streets, protest and Globally strike for a week, (21-28) January! YALLA Brave and free people of the world, CEASEFIRE NOW! - Bisan Owda (wizard_bisan1). January 21, 2024.' /End ID]

[Photo ID: A photo Bisan took of herself in the smudged mirror of an elevator. She's holding her phone up to face level while looking at the screen. She's wearing a bright blue PRESS helmet and a bright blue PRESS vest. Text over the photo reads: 'Now, we are without any connection, neither the internet nor the cellular, we can’t reach each other’s inside Gaza, we don’t know if our families and friends are alive or not, wounded or not.. still in their places or not! We take hours of walking and searching to reach someone, while moving became very risky! We can’t reach to you as well! The footage, information and news from Gaza are not reaching you as before because the Israeli army intentionally destroyers the signal towers and the servers, even using the E-SIM requires being in a high place which is very risky!. I borrowed this vest to upload this post! - Bisan Owda (wizard_bisan1). January 21, 2024.' /End ID]

TFR is participating in the Global Strike called upon by @wizard_bisan1 for this week. No money will be spent & Palestinian voices will continue to be boosted, alongside other resources for how to best use this week in support of pressuring for a ceasefire.

Bisan's full message from January 21, 2024:

Hi everyone, it’s Bisan from Gaza, I am still alive Alhamdullah.. it’s been 107 days of genocide, 15 weeks, 2568 hours of killing us, taking over our homes and lands in Gaza Strip, and forcing us to choose between leaving or death.. and sometimes we can’t even choose.. the Israeli air strikes simply kill us without any warnings. Now, we are without any connection, neither the internet nor the cellular, we can’t reach each other’s inside Gaza, we don’t know if our families and friends are alive or not, wounded or not.. still in their places or not! We take hours of walking and searching to reach someone, while moving became very risky! We can’t reach to you as well! The footage, information and news from Gaza are not reaching you as before because the Israeli army intentionally destroyers the signal towers and the servers, even using the E-SIM requires being in a high place which is very risky!. I borrowed this vest to upload this post! I am not scared of death, but of being displaced, scared of losing my family or friends, scared of being wounded and can’t have my treatment because the health system is collapsed in Gaza, and to die in pain! I am not scared of the destruction.. I lost my work place.. my home and my family work place and source of income, I am terrified of being killed by an occupier, and to be forgotten, one oppressed Bisan of a whole occupied people. The strongest governments and weapons manufacturers are supporting this genocide against my people, and you are our only hope! STRIKE globally and call for a ceasefire! Strike, protest, stop the economic movements and make pressure on your countries to stand against this and stop it, if ISRAhell don’t find the financial and weapons support, or governments to hide their crimes they will be forced to stop the genocide! Go to the streets, protest and Globally strike for a week, (21-28) January! YALLA Brave and free people of the world, CEASEFIRE NOW!