#battery voltage check

[techdriveplay]

How Do I Maintain My Car's Battery?

Maintaining your car’s battery is crucial for ensuring your vehicle runs smoothly and reliably. Knowing how to maintain your car’s battery can prevent unexpected breakdowns and extend the lifespan of your car. Here are some essential tips and stats to help you keep your car’s battery in top condition. Key Stats: A car battery typically lasts between 3 to 5 years. Extreme temperatures can…

[semi-sketchy]

I don't use my 3DS that often so I like to keep the battery around half (just to preserve it) but I charged it up recently so I'd have plenty of juice to play games if we lost power during some winter storms.

I HAVE BEEN PLAYING IT FOR LIKE 3 HOURS AND IT STILL READS AS FULL, DO THESE THINGS NOT DIE??

[floortile34]

pretty bad food today at school. gon take lunch break to go home and back to get my charger cuz my phone dropped like 90→27% inexplicably over like half an hour. no idea why, tends to do that in the cold but it didnt get that cold. maybs just lost track of time and actually that was multiple hours not sure

[zxvmp]

DTF? (Denki x Fem!Reader)

summary: it’s the weekend, so you and your classmates decide to celebrate your off days partying. where would be a better place to party than the club? What you didn’t think would happen was hooking up with Kaminari.

tags: alcohol, underage drinking, smut, improper quirk usage, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it guys), vaginal sex, roughness, skin marking

a/n: not proof read, so sorry for any errors 😩

You scrambled through your dresser drawers looking for an outfit. If you were going out with your classmates, you wanted to look extra good. There weren’t many opportunities for you to dress up and look good, so you wanted to take advantage of this opportunity.

It was Mina’s idea to sneak out when Aizawa fell asleep. The club was your idea. It took a bunch of convincing Yaoyarozu to create fake ID’s for everyone. Not to mention getting Ida to not snitch. He agreed to be on watch out for you all in case Aizawa got up.

The plan was perfect.

You pulled out a short, skimpy bright red dress that looked like a stripper would wear. It shocked you that you even owned such a thing. You thought it was a bit too much, but you really didn’t have anything else. Plus, you were sure the other girls would wear similar things.

Once the hallways started to silence, you took the time to get ready and patiently wait for a text message. You wore your hair down with a slight curls at the ends. Your makeup was subtle, just mascara, blush, and lipgloss.

As your phone buzzed on your nightstand, you applied your finishing touches and checked your phone.

Mina 🩷

alr guyss

we’re in the clear! 😍

meet up in the front quickly!! (1:02 a.m.)

Kirishima 🪨

awesome 😎

i’m so pumped

Mineta 😐

me too 🤤

*Jirou, You, Yaoyarozu, Uraraka, & others disliked Minetas message*

You slid on white high-top converse and quietly opened your door. Since you didn’t own any heels, your converse were just going to have to do. Plus, you didn’t want to deal with sore ankles the next day.

The walk down to the front doors was difficult. Mostly because everyone was containing their laughter from trying to be quiet. It didn’t help that Denki accidentally tripped down the stairs, causing a loud bang to roar throughout the staircase.

Once you all made it to the front, Denki used small voltages to disable to cameras set up. After all of the cameras were disabled, you booked it towards the front gates where multiple taxis were parked. You made a mental note to thank Yaoyarozu for paying for them.

You ended up jn a taxi with Denki, Mina, and Kirishima. The four of you were known as the planners for party situations. It was a tight squeeze in the backseat, but you all managed. You were in between Mina and Denki.

To help pass time, you played mini games on your phone. As you played your games, you noticed you forgot to charge your phone. You let out a sad sigh and disregarded the low battery notification.

Denki heard your sigh and turned his head to notice your low battery. “I got you.” He pointed a finger at your phone and used his quirk to charge your phone.

You gave him a smile, “Thanks.”

He nodded and turned his head to continue talking to Kirishima. However, your eyes were left lingering on him. He wore a black dressed shirt that was slightly unbuttoned with a gold chain. For pants, he wore black baggy jeans. An all-black combo. His cologne entered your nostrils which made you start to realize how attractive Denki actually was. You knew he was hot, but tonight he looked better than usual.

Seeing him now really set something off in you.

“Whatcha lookin at?” Mina whispered, nudging you playfully.

You bit back a smile and nudged her back, “Stop.”

Mina giggled, “C’mon just say it’s already! You think he’s hot.”

Just before you could raise your hand to silence her, Kirishima caught your attention.

“Yo, we’re here!” Kirishima excitedly hopped out the car. Denki gave you a quick glance before hopping out shortly after.

You looked back at Mina and she raised and dropped her eyebrows playfully, making you roll your eyes.

As you scooted towards the door of the car, Denki stood outside with his hand out. You paused before taking his hand.

“What’s up with all these kind gestures? You’re usually always finding a way to annoy me.”

Denki laughed, “Who says i’m still not finding ways?”

You let out a small yelp and jolted at the sudden feeling of a shock. “Ow!”

While Denki was in a laughing state, you took your chance to activate your quirk. You raised your hand and summoned a water hand to follow your action. A loud slapping sound echoed throughout the crowd, causing some people to turn back and look at the two of you.

“OW! Mine did NOT hurt that much.” Denki rubbed his cheek and wiped a tear that formed in his eye.

You snickered, “C’mon, half of them already made it in.”

~

Loud music played throughout the club. You were already five shots in of the 10 minutes of being there.

“Damn (Y/N), you do this often?” Kirishima watched as you downed a shot, amazed at how you were in the lead.

You, Denki, Mina, Kirishima, Bakugo, and Yaoyarozu were all in a drinking competition. At first, it started off with the whole class. But after three shots, multiple people tapped out.

“Nope, maybe you guys are just lightweight.” You wink, finishing another shot. In truth, you really didn’t know how you were managing multiple shots.

Bakugo snatched the shot you were reaching for before you could grab it, “Shut you damn weirdo, I won’t allow you to beat me.”

You giggled, “Alright tough guy, I was about to tap out anyways.”

And thank god you did. While you watched the others compete to drink, it all hit you. You were cheering on Denki as it happened. In one blink, your vision became slower and you could feel your body become fuzzy.

“Damn, you guys look fucked up.” Mina laughed, nudging Kirishima to look.

“How many did you guys take?!” Kirishima burst out laughing.

You looked over at Denki and noticed his eyes were half-lidded and a drunk smirk was plastered on his lips. The two of you help eye contact before he broke it.

“Wayyy more than you.”

You giggled, “Yeah!”

“Whatever, i’m gonna go find someone to dance with.” Mina got up and disappeared into the large crowd of people.

You decided dancing was a good idea and began dragging Denki into the crowd without a thought. Flashing lights were displayed everywhere and you could feel strangers brush up against you every other second.

“Awe you wanna dance with me?”

You shrugged your shoulders, “I’m bored.”

At first, it started with the two of you singing your heart out to a justin beiber song. Mina probably managed to sneak in a song request because you knew it was her favorite song. Then, as the music began to drift off to other songs, you found yourself dancing against Denki.

His hands were rested on your hips while your back was against his stomach. You felt so free and loose drunk. It was amazing. Not to mention the rush of excitement you felt whenever you’d occasionally grind your ass against Denkis crotch. You could tell he enjoyed it from the way his grip on your hips would change.

You felt goosebumps form on your neck when you felt Denki kneel down to your level to rest his head on your shoulder. You turned your head slightly and caught his eyes.

In that moment, it was like everything around you was a blur. It was only you and Denki. His eyes traveled from your eyes to your lips. You felt the urge to kiss him. He must’ve felt the same thing, because he beat you to it.

His lips were on yours in an instant. You gasped into the kiss when you felt his hands slowly move around your body. The kiss escalated quickly. You turned around to wrap your arms around his neck for a better angle.

After a while, you both pulled away to catch your breath. You stared up into his yellow eyes admiring his handsome face. Behind his half-lidded eyes, you could tell his gaze was filled with lust. You couldn’t lie and say you weren’t aroused either.

A smirk formed on your lips, “Down to fuck?”

~

It was a risky gamble. As everyone began to head back to their dorm rooms, you managed to sneak into Denki’s unnoticed.

The second the two of you reached his room, your hands were all over each other. A trail of clothes and shoes were led up to his bed. Soft moans escaped your mouth as his mouth attacked your skin. One of his hands were placed beside your head while the other was slowly making its way down your thighs.

You gripped his forearm when you felt his middle finger run down your slit. His smirk deepens and you could he was enjoying every moment of this. He loved the way your facial expressions changed with each touch. It’s like he knew your weaknesses.

“Had a feeling you liked me.” He inserted his ring and middle finger, making you whine, “Tell me i’m wrong.”

“What…?” You breathe out. Your mind was focused on the way his fingers were plunging in and out of you. The alcohol in your system made you sensitive to any and every touch.

“C’mon, you don’t think I tease you all the time just for fun? I do it because I know you like it.” His pace increased, “I mean, when I didn’t hear you deny Mina, it all started to piece together.”

You were at a loss for words. You’d have to kill Mina later for her loud mouth.

“If you knew, why are you trying to get it out of me n-now?” You words were mushing together from the sensations you were feeling. Denkis fingers were curling up into you at a perfect angle.

He giggled, “I dunno, just wanted to hear it from you.”

Before you could say anything else, you were cut off by the waves of electricity coursing throughout your body. Denki placed his thumb on your clit and used his quirk to stimulate you more. You never thought such a feeling could make you feel so good.

A loud moan echoed in his room and you felt a knot form in your stomach. Through your blurred vision, you could see that Denki was in awe.

“Fuck..”

His lips crashed onto yours and you could feel another shock jolt your body. With a final thrust of his fingers, you came undone. Your release coated his fingers and you were almost embarrassed at the sight.

“Think you can take some more, pretty girl?” Denki brought his fingers up to his mouth to lick them clean.

Watching him do so sparked something in your body you never thought would. You nodded your head to his question as you calmed down from your high.

Denki had a pretty good size for a dick, much bigger than you imagined. Watching him slide in was definitely the highlight of your night. Both of you groaned in unison once he was fully in. You felt so full.

You threw your head back and closed your eyes once he began to thrust. He started of slow so the two of you could adjust to the euphoric feeling.

“Fuck—Denki, keep going.” You muttered in between quick breaths. He felt so good inside of you. It was a perfect fit.

He let in a sharp inhale when you clenched around him, “Whatever you say, angel.”

His nicknames made your heart swoon. Once his pace picked up, you clutched the bedsheets beneath you. The grip his hands had on your hips was brutal and sure to leave markings in the morning, but you didn’t care. Not when you felt like that.

Your breaths started to become erratic, and you could tell from the way his thrust started to become sloppy, he was close.

“Denki-”

He groaned, “Yes?”

“After this, what are we?”

He smiled and planted a kiss on your forehead, “Whatever you want us to be.”

You smiled and hooked your arms around his neck to bring him into a kiss. Denki brought a hand up to your cheek and traced circles with his thumb. You turned into mush under his touch. He was truly your weakness, and you were totally okay with that.

“Tell me if it’s too much, mkay?”

You nodded and unhooked your arms from his neck. His hands returned to your hips and you felt his pace pick up again. However, his thumb began to circle your clit with his quirk playing a role, sending you over the edge. You were a moaning mess.

The voltage of electricity had you seeing stars and feeling things you didn’t think you could ever achieve. No man has ever made you feel that way.

Nothing but moans and broken cries came out your mouth. Denki was enjoying every second of it. Hell, if he could hear you and watch you crumble like this everyday he’d do it in a heartbeat.

Without warning, your body began to spasm and an intense orgasm took over your body. Denki continued to thrust into you, chasing his own high.

“Ah—Denki!”

“I know babe, just give me a couple more seconds.”

Your mind went blank and your ears began to ring. After a couple minutes, you began to snap back to reality. Your eyes traveled down to see Denki cleaning your stomach with a T-shirt. You mentally thanked him for not finishing inside of you.

You snickered.

“What? It’s all I had.”

“Thank you, now let’s sleep. I’m exhausted.”

He tossed the dirty T-shirt to the side and crawled up next to you. You pulled a blanket over your bodies and slowly drifted off to sleep. You had a lot to discuss in the morning.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

Do headlights drain the battery while driving?

No, headlights do not drain the battery while driving under normal circumstances. Here’s why:

The Alternator Powers Electrical Systems While Driving

When the engine is running, the alternator generates electricity to: Power all electrical components (headlights, radio, AC, etc.).

Recharge the battery to maintain its charge.

Headlights typically draw 5–10A (60–120W) of power, which a functional alternator can easily supply (most alternators produce 60–150A).

When Headlights Could Drain the Battery

Exceptions occur if there’s a mechanical or electrical failure: Failing Alternator: If the alternator isn’t generating enough power, the battery will compensate until it’s drained.

Symptoms: Dimming lights, battery warning light, or odd electrical behavior.

Parasitic Drain: Faulty wiring or aftermarket accessories (e.g., amplifiers) may overload the system.

Extreme Loads: Running headlights + high-power devices (heated seats, AC, etc.) on an older car with a weak alternator.

How to Check for Issues

Voltage Test: Use a multimeter on the battery:

Engine off: 12.4–12.7V = healthy.

Engine running: 13.5–14.5V = alternator working. Below 13V = failure.

Load Test: Mechanics can simulate electrical loads to test alternator output.

Preventing Battery Drain Turn off lights when the engine is off (modern cars often do this automatically).

Fix alternator/wiring issues promptly.

Avoid retrofitting high-wattage LED/HID bulbs without upgrading the alternator.

Key Takeaway: In a properly functioning car, headlights are powered by the alternator and won’t drain the battery while driving. If your battery dies with the engine running, suspect alternator failure or excessive electrical load. 🔧🔋

[eldritch-spouse]

Cock and balls torture with Patches, for science*

*science: checking how fast this manhoe can come from having his lady parts impaled on knitting needles connected to car battery.

[Lady parts kkkkkkkk-]

TW: CBT; Gore.

Patches adores that you're going this far in the name of """"science"""".

And it's with that in mind that he's made a list of procedures for you to follow, in case your experiments end up with him dismembered, disemboweled, or otherwise in a semi-comatose state from excessive physical damage.

Rest assured he's not dead- Just deteriorated! And the handy-dandy "Post Horrendously Brutal Sex" manual the dullahan made for you lets you know what to do to help his recovery be as smooth as possible.

Such as when, say, his cock and balls quite literally explode from the voltage you inflicted upon his poor, burnt and inwardly melting body.

A lot of that manual is basically "Shovel my body parts into a plot of dirt under the moonlight and check every couple hours".

[carionto]

Plug and play... just don't forget to check the voltage

The Pirate Admiral (still self appointed title) Big Thrasher had finally done it! He had acquired a piece of overpowered Human technology - a gravitational beam weapon system - for his undefeatable* fleet (very much defeatable with a factual track record of failure. Twice.). (he got it off a space yard sale)

They had mounted it on his prized flagship - Thrashinator!!! (exclamations points are indeed part of the name) - and with the boost of confidence boosted towards the nearest trade depot, leaving the rest of his fleet scrambling to catch up.

"Surrender all your precious valuables, scruffs! Big Thrasher is taking ownership of everything in my sight!! Refuse, and I'll let this H U M A N made gravity gun do the rest of the talking!!! Humha mha mha mhaa mmmhaaaa!!!!"

A few quiet moments later, someone from a docked trade vessel hailed the Thrashinator!!!. It was a strange looking ship, it had what looked like wheels and a... exhaust pipe and air intake grill? What mattered more was the person on the other end was a Human, speaking in what the translator indicated was a forced accent.

"Howdy 'dere, pardner. I hear ye be threatenin' this 'ere fine establishment wit' somthin' ya took from ma' folk. Ya kno' wat I say to dat? Do it, pal. I bet yer countin' yer chickns' 'fore they hatch'd."

Having a Human talk to him in a veiled threatening way caused some discomfort and apprehension in Big Thrasher, but he told himself - No! Don't be scared by their taunts. Humans have only ever been lucky. You are undefeatable in a fair fight! And now it will be a fair fight! YES!!

FIRE THE GRAVITY GUN!!!

The Thrashinator!!! began to hum with power, the gravitational beam weapon system was charging up, the strain of unfettered engineering colliding with the reliability of countless eons of proven designs used throughout the Galaxy. Then, when the Thrashinator!!! was noticeably beginning to vibrate from the raw force exuded by the hastily attached piece of foreign machinery plugged into their native power generators, Big Thrasher looked at the dials.

2% charged.

Before he could process what the number meant, there was a ship-wide blackout, followed by the backup generators meekly kicking in. However, due to the built-in redundancies of Human weapons always wanting to be available, those too got fried as their collective battery power added a whole 0.3% to the charge.

Human weapons, all systems really, are power hungry. Not to say they are inefficient, far from it, it's just that fundamental design principles differ when you do, in fact, have access to infinite and fast energy in the form of miniature stars.

Anyway, the rest of Big Thrasher's fleet soon caught up and, using recently observed Human tactics, attached several hyper-drives to the Thrashinator!!! and jumped to a safe haven.

The space trucker Jenny "Way Jane" Klara, who taunted Big Thrasher, had a few weeks of extranet fame from her posting the "confrontation" and subsequent posts such as "LOL, Aliens forget to check the voltage, EPIC FAIL!" on social media. She quickly got bored though and went back to being the massive gear-head she is and talking in almost pure technical terms, inspiring a small following to get into hyper-modifying their vessels into other similar "retro" style vehicles.

[peacockplanet]

Peacock Planet Chapter 2 Page 14

November 18 1987 C.E. (West) 10:09 A.M. G.M.T. Guantanamo, Cuba Earth, Helios System Milky Way

TIME CORPS Central Branch Office Fort Arc Echo East 7447201TR

Telepath this form to: Cindy Shell 38 Chronopostal Code: Almaaz ε Aurigae

INCIDENT REPORT FORM

☑ On the job ☐ In transit ☐ On premises ☐ Remote

Describe what you were doing at the time of the incident. Include any job duties done immediately before or during the incident or interrupted by it.

Hello, is anyone monitoring this form real-time? Please? Even an A.I. I would love to talk to an A.I. right now. I would love to talk to anyone right now. No one live? Okay. As soon as you read this, send help to my coordinates, okay? Just send help. Okay, Zeta, you are walking down a tunnel. You're down at the middle. You're close to the end. Okay, Zeta, at the end of the tunnel you're going to stop feeling panic, and not feel so much pain it distracts you. You're going to file the report. You're doing a really good job, Zeta. You're at the end of the tunnel now.

Zeta reporting in-field injury gained during interrogation. Would usually file at end of mission but factors are adverse for mission success. Have been hooked up to car battery cables, to jumper cables, to a car battery, there's jumper cables there's a car battery there's trouble with memory of the exact event but if you check my vitals in the previous hour or two there should be an idea of the voltage I've received. My chest is experiencing pain, not cardiac arrest, dull muscle ache, pulled muscle. Can't move. Can't convince body to move. Can't finish mission.

Earlier injury acquired before capture is preventing escape. Rubber bullet impact wound to small of back, on spine. Difficulty moving. Possible blunt force head injury. Memory loss. Retrieval request. Retrieval request. Retrieval request. Retrieval request. I have no working equipment and have been electrocuted through the spine by a car battery the CIA owns.

Describe the accommodations you are seeking as a result of this incident.

I'm a little concerned with how nothing seems real, and heat keeps coming in waves up my back. If I close my eyes, I feel the universe moving, and it makes me nauseous. Before the battery, they had a telekinetic come in and hit me with stuff I couldn't even see. He was way over my level. I don't know who they think I am but they hit me with everything. Have we been compromised?

White you are recovering from your injury, what work duties can you perform?

While I am unconscious in a cell at a CIA black site I am fully capable of sending telepathic reports and checking my field inbox. I am not in a condition that allows access to radio signals or coding equipment. I am opting out of this week's office pot luck.

-- PAGE 01 --

Photo: Cassiopeia, credit NASA/JPL

[adamsea-boat]

Preparing Your Boat For The 2025 Season: Essential Maintenance Tips

As the sun starts to warm the coastlines and lakes of North America, there’s a renewed excitement among everyone who loves boats and boating. Whether you own a sleek cigarette powerboat, a relaxing pontoon boat, or a reliable fishing boat, the time to get your vessel water-ready is now.

The 2025 boating season is knocking, and skipping pre-season maintenance isn’t just risky — it could cut your adventures short. Let’s dive into the essential maintenance checklist to help you launch the new season safely and smoothly.

Why Boat Maintenance Before the Season Matters

Boats that sit idle during the offseason can develop hidden issues — whether it’s moisture in the engine or wear and tear on the hull. Performing regular maintenance before hitting the water ensures that everything is in top condition for smooth sailing. Whether you’re planning to head out on your fishing boat or sailboat, making sure everything is shipshape reduces the chances of costly repairs down the line. Additionally, if you’re thinking of upgrading or eventually selling your boat, taking good care of it can make a world of difference in how it performs — and how quickly it sells.

Besides, a well-maintained boat holds better resale value and makes it more attractive to potential buyers. Whether you’re selling a bass boat or listing a pontoon boat, a boat that’s properly cared for will always stand out.

What Regular Maintenance Should Be Done on a Boat?

Regular boat maintenance includes engine oil changes, fuel filter replacements, battery checks, hull cleaning, safety gear inspections, and electronics testing. It’s also important to clean the bilge, inspect the propeller, and check for corrosion — especially if your boat operates in saltwater regions. For those not mechanically inclined, AdamSea provides a helpful solution where boat owners can locate certified service providers or marinas for seasonal prep.

1. Inspect and Service the Engine

Start with the heart of your vessel — the engine. Check oil levels, replace filters, inspect hoses and belts, and top off coolant if necessary. For bass boats or sailboats that rely on smaller engines, even a minor leak or hose crack could mean a ruined day on the water.

Battery voltage is equally crucial. Clean the terminals and ensure your battery holds a full charge. If it’s nearing the end of its lifecycle, replace it before heading out.

2. Clean and Examine the Hull

Whether you own a compact river cruiser or a luxurious viking boat, the hull’s condition directly impacts both the boat’s performance and appearance. Scrub away algae, inspect for cracks or blisters, and apply a fresh coat of antifouling paint if needed. A clean, well-maintained hull improves fuel efficiency, reduces drag, and ensures a smoother, faster ride. It also helps maintain the boat’s resale value, ensuring you’ll have no trouble finding a buyer when it’s time to part ways.

If you’re considering selling your boat in the future, proper maintenance now ensures it’s in great shape for when that time comes. A well-maintained boat not only performs better but also retains its value, making it a more attractive option for potential buyers down the road.

3. Test Safety Equipment and Electronics

Safety should always be a priority. Check that your fire extinguisher is charged, life vests are free of Mold and tears, and emergency signals (flares, horn, and whistle) are functional. Make sure navigation lights and onboard electronics such as radios or GPS are working without glitches — especially if you’re operating your boat in low-light or open-sea conditions.

4. Upgrade Your Onboard Essentials

Restock your first-aid kit, organize ropes and anchors, and ensure your dock lines aren’t fraying. For boaters using their vessels for private boat rentals or houseboat rental services, small touches like clean towels and fresh drinking water can leave a great impression.

Depending on your vessel type — be it a cozy 30st or a party-ready pontoon boat — you may also want to check your seating cushions, sunshade covers, and other comfort features.

5. Registration, Insurance, and Licenses

Before your first sail of the season, double-check that your insurance is valid, your registration hasn’t expired, and your license (where required) is in order. This step is especially crucial if you operate in different jurisdictions like USA and Canada, or offer boat rentals as part of your business.

6. Consider Professional Help

Not everyone is confident with marine mechanics — and that’s totally okay. AdamSea makes it easier for boat owners to list their marina or service, find local professionals, or even source rare accessories. It’s a growing hub that helps connect Florida-based sailors, Canadian enthusiasts, and everyone in between with reliable boating services.

For those in Miami, where yacht rental and boat dealers in constant demand, AdamSea streamlines the process of maintaining, upgrading, or even reselling your boat.

7. Bonus Tip: Use the Offseason to Plan Upgrades

Now’s also a great time to upgrade your vessel. Whether you’re thinking about installing solar panels, upgrading your sound system, or adding a kayak rental option alongside your boat business, the offseason gives you the time to think ahead. Buyers are always searching for boats for sale or unique custom builds, so this is your chance to stand out.

Conclusion: Set Sail Confidently in 2025

With the right pre-season routine, your boat won’t just be seaworthy — it’ll be a smooth, reliable companion all season long. Whether you own a small skipper for family outings or a high-powered cigarette boat for thrills, proper maintenance is non-negotiable.

And when you’re ready to explore services, parts, or even list your boat, AdamSea is the trusted name that bridges boaters with experts across North America.

This 2025, sail smart. Maintain early. Cruise far.

[bungostraydogs-atsinh]

Chapter Two: Fourth Floor, Western District

Word Count: About 5,394.

Kafka’s apartment wasn’t much.

A second-floor corner unit tucked into the rear of an aging tenement building—half-forgotten by the city, as if it had slipped between the cracks of progress and memory. It sat sandwiched between a laundromat that never quite rid its clothes of soap and mildew, and a soba shop that had shuttered three winters ago, its faded sign still clinging to the awning like an old man to ritual. The building’s outer shell was a weary mosaic of gray brick, stained and softened by time. Ivy climbed lazily up its sides, winding around pipes and windowsills as if trying to stitch the whole thing together before it fell apart completely. A rusted fire escape clung to one flank like a broken ribcage, its steps groaning with even the lightest footfall. The windows wore their dust thick—decades layered like sediment, letting in light only in softened, filtered shards.

Inside, the hallway lights buzzed with the fragile anxiety of aging wiring, flickering in protest every time the voltage dipped too low. The wallpaper, once cream, had yellowed into something more like parchment. It peeled at the corners, curling away from the wall in places, patched here and there with overlapping sheets of old newspapers and painter’s tape, like someone had tried to keep the building from forgetting its stories. Shoes lined the thresholds of narrow apartments—neatly arranged, some polished, some scuffed, all quiet. The smell of steamed rice, miso broth, and soy lingered in the air, escaping from under doors and curling up through vents. It mingled with cooler undertones: old tatami, varnished wood, damp linen left just a little too long on a drying rack. Kafka moved through it all like a ghost returning to its shrine. The hall creaked beneath her boots, and her fingers drifted briefly along the wall as she passed, trailing across the ridges of a newspaper patch featuring a headline from years ago—its ink faded but not forgotten.

Kafka didn’t pay rent.

That was part of the arrangement. The building’s owner, Mr. Tsukino, was a man carved out of years. A widower in his seventies with a spine curved like a bow and a gait that favored memory over strength. His hair had long since faded to cloud-white, gathered into a wispy ponytail that bobbed gently with each slow shuffle of his steps. His eyes—hooded, rimmed in soft red from age—carried the weight of too many mornings, but they never hardened. They were the kind of eyes that had seen war, seen love, seen the shrinking of the world into smaller and smaller rooms—and still looked at others with gentleness. He wore the same gray hanten jacket every day, its collar frayed, its sleeves thinned at the elbows. His slippers rarely matched—one a faded blue with a worn-down sole, the other a tan guest slipper from a long-forgotten inn—but they moved as he did, slow and soft and mostly silent. The other tenants barely saw him anymore. But Kafka always did. In exchange for the room, she had offered to help.

She swept the stairwells when the wind dragged in leaves. She checked the mail slots, kept the entryway clear of clutter, changed the hallway bulbs when they flickered too much for Mr. Tsukino’s eyes to follow. She carried bags of rice up the stairs, cleared snow from the narrow steps in winter, and fetched batteries for his old transistor radio when the city’s hum got too loud and he needed something quieter to listen to. Her unit—the second-floor corner—rattled when the wind moved through the city, windows shivering in their frames. The floor shifted just enough to creak when someone stepped too heavily in the wrong place, and the pipes occasionally groaned like someone talking in their sleep. But Kafka liked the sound. It reminded her the world was still moving. That time hadn’t stopped. That things, however quietly, still lived. And that here—tucked between the walls of someone else's long grief and her own borrowed peace—she had carved out a kind of stillness.

When she reached her door, she didn’t enter at first. The key hung loosely in her hand, cool against her skin, its metal catching the faint light bleeding in from the hallway's flickering bulb. She didn’t lift it to the lock. Not yet. She stood still, the silence of the corridor curling around her like mist, and let the day settle in her bones. Now that she was alone—truly alone—the weight of everything she’d carried pressed deeper against her spine, pulling her inward like gravity. Her free hand rose slowly to the edge of her scarf, fingers brushing against the hidden fold where Fukuzawa’s card now rested. She could feel its shape even through the fabric—sharp edges, faint indentations from embossed ink. A presence, a promise. A door she hadn’t dared believe existed. The scent of orange muffins lingered at the edge of her senses—warm, bittersweet. Memory more than aroma now. A phantom echo of comfort that made her chest tighten in that peculiar way grief and gratitude sometimes overlap.

She inhaled, turned the key, and stepped inside.

The apartment greeted her with its usual quiet: no clock, no hum of appliances, only the soft creak of tatami underfoot and the occasional whisper of wind pressing against the windowpane. The room was sparse—honestly, bare. An open space wrapped in pale gray morning, with cracked tatami mats that curled at the edges and bore the marks of decades of use. The only furniture was a squat wooden table, its surface nicked and stained with ink and tea, which she’d found abandoned months ago near a recycling bin. She’d carried it home in her arms, like a gift someone else had given up on. In one corner, her futon was rolled neatly and bound with cloth, tucked beside a stack of folded linens. A faded curtain strung on a thin cord divided off her bathing space, its hem frayed and uneven. The water heater sputtered when used but still worked—usually. On the windowsill sat her only decoration: a slender, pale-yellow vase. Ceramic, hairline-cracked along the base. It held a single jasmine stem, long dried but still fragrant if warmed by sunlight. She didn’t remember where the flower had come from. Only that she couldn’t bear to throw it away.

Her scarf, unwrapped now, hung beside the door on a nail. Her boots were set just beneath it, lined up neatly side by side. Everything else she owned—wallet, journal, pen, a folded photograph worn soft with time—lived in her pockets. She didn’t need more and yet, something in her chest still ached. By the time she’d returned home, the sky was just beginning to brighten, the horizon tinged with the faintest lavender glow. The air outside clung damp to her sleeves, cool with leftover night. Just as she was about to sit down and start writing in her journal, there was a faint knock at her door. When she opened it she was greeted with the image of her landlord Mr. Tsukino.

He was leaning against the rusted iron railing, one hand gripping the metal with stiff fingers, the other holding a sealed envelope with careful precision. His knees trembled under the weight of his own body—just barely, but enough for Kafka to notice. The fabric of his dark green trousers was pressed at the thighs and loose at the calves, swaying slightly in the morning breeze. He wore his usual mismatched slippers and the same gray hanten jacket, its collar frayed more than it had been the day before. He stood like a man trying not to show pain. Kafka didn’t say anything at first. She only paused worried, watching him quietly from her door, waiting for him to speak, the hush between them filled with the gentle rustle of ivy leaves outside the window.

"Kafka," Mr. Tsukino called, his voice rough with gravel and age. She turned gently toward him, and he held out an envelope with both hands—arms extended with the solemnity of an offering at a shrine. "Could you run this up to apartment 4B? It’s for Noriko Hayashi. Her little girl, Mei—turns six tomorrow. Birthday card." His fingers trembled slightly around the paper, but his grip was careful, reverent. Like he feared crushing it. Kafka took the envelope with equal care, cradling it between her palms as if it carried more than just words.

"Of course, Tsukino-san," she said softly. “I’ve time before my shift.” The corners of his lips twitched, a ghost of a smile playing there—not quite reaching his tired eyes.

 “You’re too kind.”  She didn’t answer. Just offered a polite nod, then turned to the stairwell. Her footsteps barely stirred the dust—soft and measured, more presence than sound. As she ascended, she paused here and there—repositioning a pair of slippers, straightening a shoe rack that had shifted sideways, brushing a fingerprint from a glass panel with the corner of her scarf. Movements small enough to be invisible. Familiar enough to be ritual.

The fourth floor welcomed her with quiet. The hallway was lined with signs of life—tiny sneakers, a watering can shaped like a cartoon frog, potted succulents carefully arranged like a child's garden. Outside 4B, a wind chime swayed in the early breeze—ceramic petals shaped like plum blossoms, their music delicate as silver spoons tapping porcelain. Kafka crouched before the door. She slipped the envelope into the woven basket hanging from the knob, tucking one corner beneath the braided edge so it wouldn’t blow away. Then she tapped it twice with her knuckle—softly, like a promise. From within came the low murmur of humming—off-key but loving. The cadence of a mother’s voice moving through morning chores. Then, pealing laughter—bright and sudden—from a child. Kafka lingered for a breath. Just long enough to let the warmth settle in her bones. Then she turned and made her way back down.

When she reached the bottom floor, Mr. Tsukino was where she’d expected him—seated on the old wooden bench near the entryway, shoulders stooped, both hands kneading the joints of his knee through the fabric of his trousers. His radio, placed beside him like a companion, sputtered more static than sound, its antenna tilted at an awkward angle toward the sky.

"She’ll be happy," Kafka said, her voice quiet but sure.

He didn’t look at her. Just kept massaging the same aching joint. "She deserves to be," he murmured. And he meant it. His words carried the weight of a man who had once believed in a future that hadn’t come, who now watched from the sidelines of life with eyes that had seen too many good things disappear. A father once, perhaps. A husband certainly. Now just an old man with a soft voice and a memory full of names he didn’t say aloud. He never asked why Kafka lived alone. Never asked where her parents had gone, or why a girl so young walked with the quiet awareness of someone always expecting things to end. Maybe he didn’t have to. Maybe he saw it in her posture. In the way she moved through silence like she was afraid to disturb it. In the way she smiled with her mouth but rarely her eyes. Kafka gave him a small bow.

“I’ll sweep the back stairwell when I return.”

"If I’m not dead, I’ll be here,” he muttered, tone dry. But beneath the grumble was fondness—old and rough-edged, but real. Kafka smiled, just faintly. She liked the way his voice changed when he teased her.

-------

The door to Lupin creaked open just as the first rays of sunlight spilled across the hardwood floor, amber and gold like a blessing. Kafka stepped inside, the morning air clinging faintly to her sleeves, her scarf tucked neatly into the front of her dress. In one hand she carried a small paper bag, folded carefully at the top—the thin, sweet scent of fresh melonpan drifting from within. A gift from Noriko on the fourth floor. A thank-you, she'd said. For being kind.

The bar was hushed in that soft, sacred way places are when they haven't quite woken up. The air held the lingering scent of old wood and citrus oil, mingled with the darker undertones of freshly ground coffee. The shelves behind the counter stood like sentinels, lined with bottles in uniform rows, their labels catching the morning light. None would be touched until dusk, when laughter and long shadows would fill the space. Curtains were drawn halfway across the tall windows, allowing sunlight to slant in like a whisper—enough to warm the floorboards and light up the brass fixtures with a quiet gleam.

Behind the counter stood a man in his early forties, drying a spotless glass with the distracted rhythm of routine. Kojima Hajime—Koji, to everyone who mattered—wore a plain button-down rolled to the elbows and a faded bar towel over one shoulder. His face bore the soft-lined weariness of someone who had once laughed often, and still might, if the moment called for it. His dark hair was tousled like he'd just run a hand through it half a dozen times. His eyes—tired, kind—lifted at the sound of the door. The moment he saw her, his posture eased.

“Morning, sunshine,” he greeted, setting the glass aside with a clink. “You’re early.”

“Good morning, Koji-san,” Kafka replied softly, bowing her head in greeting. She held up the paper bag in both hands. “Noriko-san insisted I bring you this.”

“Melonpan?” His eyes widened with something close to reverence. He accepted the bag like it contained gold. “Gods bless that woman. And you. You know, I used to work both shifts, morning prep and the night crowd. Slept maybe two hours a night, if the city was merciful. I’m pretty sure the floorboards here still remember the shape of my back.”

Kafka smiled faintly, amused by the thought, already moving behind the counter. She reached for her apron—the one Koji had stitched with a little golden thread at the hem when hers started to fray—and tied it neatly around her waist.

“You still sleep here,” Kafka teased, her voice barely louder than the sunlight filtering in.

Koji raised an eyebrow, smirking around the edge of the paper bag. “True,” he admitted, shrugging with the exaggerated laziness of someone long past the point of shame. “But now it’s on a cot and not a crate of plum wine. Thanks to you.”

He waved vaguely toward the backroom. Beyond the swinging door, a small corner had been arranged with Kafka’s help—no bigger than a closet, but enough. A cot with an old flannel blanket folded at the edge, a tiny bookshelf stacked with worn paperbacks, and a ceramic lamp that cast a warm, amber glow when the city lights went out. A space carved out with quiet care.

Kafka smiled faintly, already picking up a cloth and beginning to wipe down the counter. “I don’t mind mornings,” she said simply. “It’s peaceful.”

“That’s why I trust you with it,” Koji murmured, as if that explained everything.

Then, with a soft grunt of gratitude and the paper bag tucked under his arm, he vanished into the backroom, the door swinging shut behind him with a familiar creak. Kafka was left alone in the golden hush of morning, the light slanting across the bar like spilled tea. The coffee had already been brewed. Its scent filled the room—deep and earthy, with a whisper of roasted nuts and citrus oil from the wiped counters. She moved with practiced ease, unhurried, opening the glass display case and carefully aligning each pastry into neat, inviting rows: glossy croissants, an-pan buns with sugared tops, and a single sesame mochi cake placed dead center like a secret waiting to be found.

Lupin in the morning was not the same place it became after sunset.

In the evenings, the bar came alive—laughter pressed between shadows, smoke curling like ribbon from the corners of conversations too heavy for daylight. The air buzzed with secrets and sharp smiles. But now—now it was soft. Here, she didn’t feel like a stranger. She didn’t have to explain who she was or why her eyes sometimes carried too much knowing. She served tired office workers who never took their coats off. Retirees who sipped their tea with both hands like they were holding time. Couriers who stepped in without a word, exchanged a nod, and left again with a thermos and silence. No questions. No expectations. Just warmth in a ceramic cup and the soft, steady click of the door chime as they came and went.

Kafka liked it this way.

By the time the first customer walked in, the bar had settled into its morning stillness.

The scent of fresh bread hung in the air—yeast and warmth and a hint of crusted sugar—mingling with lemon oil wiped into the counter’s grain until the wood gleamed golden in the sunlight. Coffee simmered low behind the bar, its aroma rich and bitter-sweet, curling into the room like a sigh. Kafka had already slipped her tip jar beneath the counter, careful to place it beside the single object she’d carried with unspoken weight since yesterday: the card from the Armed Detective Agency. Her fingers found it now, brushing lightly over the corner. The cardstock was thick, almost velvety, the printed letters slightly raised, each word pressed into the paper like a promise. She traced the embossed edges with the pad of her thumb, as if the shape of the name might give her an answer. The job offer hovered in her thoughts like a warm draft from an open door.

She loved Lupin—not in the way one might love people, but in the way a monk might love silence. There was reverence in its rhythm. A quiet dignity in polishing the counter until it shone like still water. In listening without speaking. In making tea with the same precision each morning, not because it was required, but because it mattered that something—anything—was done well, with care. The bar didn’t demand she define herself. It didn’t ask her to be strong, or heroic, or whole. It simply let her be—gentle, invisible, necessary in ways no one voiced but everyone felt. And she loved her other work too—the quiet upkeep of the apartment building, the exchanges with Mr. Tsukino, the small acts of care that kept someone else's world from falling apart.

But was it enough?

She liked helping. Needed to help, really. Listening to people’s stories, easing their burdens in soft, invisible ways. And somehow, it had been easy to do that here—through hot drinks and warm bread, through nods and silence and small acts of kindness no one asked for but everyone noticed. And yet… this was just a bar. A good one. A safe one. A place where people came not to be saved but to rest.

The Agency offered something else entirely.

Kafka’s hand lingered on the card as she stared past the polished rows of glassware, eyes unfocused. At the ADA, she wouldn’t just listen—she would act. She would see the worst in people, the wreckage they left behind. Tragedies that refused to stay buried. Crimes that carved themselves into flesh and bone. There were murders, betrayals, the broken machinery of human cruelty. There, she wouldn’t just witness pain. She would step into it. With bare feet. With open eyes. People only sought out the Armed Detective Agency when something had gone terribly wrong.

Could she survive that?

She was already drowning in the emotions of others. Already slipping beneath the surface some nights when the bar got too full, when the voices got too heavy, when a single touch during a coffee refill was enough to send sorrow racing through her nerves like lightning. And this was just a bar. At the Agency, the feelings would be worse. Sharper. More violent. Unfiltered.

But—Mr. Fukuzawa had said he could help. Help contain her ability. Soften the edges. Build a dam where now there was only floodwater. A part of her—a small, fierce part—ached at the idea of living without the constant noise. Of breathing for herself instead of through others. Kafka poured the dark roast into the glass pot slowly, the click of the warming plate beneath it was the only sound. The scent rose like incense in the quiet. She felt it—the weightless, sacred stillness of the bar. And yet, outside, the world moved. Sirens. Laughter. Grief. A world begging not for baristas, but for witnesses. For philosophers willing to touch the flame.

Kafka did not believe in binaries. Not anymore. She had seen too many sinners praying. Too many saints breaking. But perhaps the Agency was not about good or evil. Perhaps it was simply about truth. A place where she could walk into the wreckage and, with shaking hands, still choose to stay. Still choose to listen. Still choose to bear witness without vanishing.

She turned the card over once, then again. Her reflection rippled in the glass of the liquor shelf behind it—fragmented. Blurred. A hundred versions of herself staring back.

If I go, she thought, I will change.

There was no answer to her thoughts just the quiet hum of a bar pretending to be a diner during the day to hid the nightmare it turned into after dusk. The day shift was always quiet. Gentle. No alcohol. No noise. Just the clink of cups. The muted turn of pages in the corner booth. The occasional breathless “thank you” from an overworked office worker grabbing a roll before the train. She loved the peace. But peace, she was beginning to realize, was not the same as purpose. She returned the card to its place under the counter, fingers hesitating just a moment longer before releasing it. The bell above the door chimed softly behind her.

Kafka turned.

The first customer of the day had arrived. It was in the booths that he sat. Kafka hadn’t seen him come in. The bar was washed in honeyed gold—morning light filtering through half-drawn curtains, soft as breath. Dust motes drifted in the beams, suspended midair like they were afraid to settle. Overhead, a slow, mournful jazz tune played from the old speakers, all low trumpet and brushed snare, weaving through the room like a memory too shy to speak aloud.

The moment she saw him, the air shifted. The man sat motionless in the corner booth, and yet his presence filled the space like the sharp scent of iron. He was made of stillness—not the gentle kind, not the stillness of rest or morning calm, but the calculated, taut quiet of someone who had never needed to rush. Someone who chose each moment with surgical precision. His posture was immaculate. Ceremonial. Long legs crossed at the ankle, back straight without stiffness, gloved hands resting symmetrically on either side of a folded newspaper. He looked less like a man and more like a painting hung in the wrong century.

He wore a charcoal wool coat, perfectly tailored, the fabric matte and undisturbed, not a wrinkle or thread out of place. Beneath it, a slate-gray vest peeked through the sharp line of a buttoned shirt, collar crisp, sleeves smoothed flat. The leather gloves remained on his hands, even in the rising warmth of the sunlit room—black, fitted, polished like the skin of a raven’s wing.

And his face—

Austere. Sharply angular. As if winter had carved it out of stone and then stepped away, satisfied. His features were elegant in the coldest sense: too symmetrical, too precise, like someone had edited out any sign of softness. But it was his eyes that stopped her.

They were empty.

Pale. Not gray. Just… absent. Like polished marble or ash left after fire. Eyes that didn’t reflect light but consumed it, pulling it inward. Kafka felt, not for the first time in her life, as if she were the one being read. Her hand moved on instinct, cloth gliding across the lacquered counter, wiping away a nonexistent smudge. Her gaze, however, flicked back to him—to the newspaper still folded neatly on the table in front of him.

He hadn’t turned a page.

Not in several minutes.

The headline sat bold across the front:

MOTHER OF FIVE KILLS FOUR CHILDREN IN MANIC EPISODE

Kafka didn’t mean to read it. She’d only glanced down to wipe the table, but the words hit her like an echo—familiar, sharp, too loud in the quiet. Her breath caught. For a moment, she wasn’t sure if the grief that bloomed in her chest was hers or someone else’s.

The man spoke before she could walk away.

"Tragedy," he said, his voice low and smooth, like a priest at a funeral. "But perhaps... understandable."

Kafka turned, slowly, her expression covered in confusion, head tilted slightly. "Understandable?"

He looked up from the paper, gaze unblinking. " A woman. Alone. Drowning in the endless duty of motherhood. Raising five children in a world that rewards her suffering with silence... it's not so hard to imagine she did it to spare them. To spare herself."

Kafka’s grip on the rag tightened. Her voice, when it came, was quiet.

"That isn’t mercy," she said. "That’s despair."

He tilted his head—just slightly. Like a man dissecting a thought rather than feeling it. "Is there such a clear difference between the two?"

Kafka thought of Mrs. Woolf. Of the muffins. The grief, still fresh after all those years. But she lived. She endured.

"There was a woman," Kafka began, her voice soft but steady. "She lost her daughter before the child was ever born. It almost destroyed her. But she held on. Every day, she held on. She still speaks to her daughter in dreams. Still sets a place at the table when no one is looking. But she lives. She loves."

The man didn’t smile. He only folded the paper neatly, his eyes dark and distant.

Kafka turned to go, but something rooted her in place. Her chest ached. The air around him—it was like wading into cold water. Still, but drowning.

He spoke again.

"You sound like someone who believes motherhood is a gift."

"It can be," she replied quietly. " There’s a woman in my building. Works too much. Comes home exhausted. Still finds the strength to kiss her daughter goodnight. I can feel it—every time I pass their door. That joy. That love."

He didn’t answer right away. Just stared at her, as if studying something beneath her skin.

Kafka sat across from him.

She hadn’t meant to. Her rag still rested on the edge of a nearby table, a half-wiped coffee ring beneath it. But something in the man’s silence drew her like gravity—not the force that pulls you down, but the kind that reminds you where the center is. The booth was tucked into the far corner of Lupin, bathed in a thin golden wash of light slanting through the blinds. The jazz had faded into something quieter now—piano and breath—soft enough not to intrude. Across from her, the man rested his hands on the table. Gloved still. Still like a statue. The newspaper had been folded and forgotten beside him. He hadn’t touched the tea she’d poured him earlier. Not since their last exchange.

For a while, they simply sat.

Then he spoke, his voice low and even. A slow sorrow curling through each word.

"Women in this world," he said, "are born into expectation. Into sacrifice. Into love that is demanded rather than chosen."

Kafka watched him, her hazel eyes steady and soft.

"They are made saints when they bleed for others, and monsters when they falter."

He looked out the window, though his gaze remained fixed on something far beyond it.

"How many lives have been crushed beneath the word 'mother'? How many girls turned into ghosts because someone told them that their value was in their womb, their forgiveness, their silence?"

His voice didn’t rise. If anything, it fell quieter. Like a confession.

"They endure. Even when they should not have to. Even when it kills them. And the world claps its hands and calls them brave for it."

Kafka nodded once. Slowly. "There is sorrow in that. But also strength."

"Perhaps," he said. "But it is a strength no one should have to carry."

She leaned forward slightly, elbows resting gently on the table. "You’ve seen this."

"Yes," he replied. No elaboration. Just that. A single word, so full of loss it seemed to darken the edges of the sunlight.

Kafka tilted her head. "You grieve for them."

"I do."

He turned his gaze on her then, and for the first time, it felt less like scrutiny and more like recognition.

"You have that kind of sorrow too," he said.

Kafka looked down at her hands, folded neatly in her lap. "I carry what others leave behind."

The man was silent again. Then he said, "And no one thinks to ask if you want to."

She smiled, soft and sad. "I wouldn’t know how to say no."

Outside, the street murmured with life. Bicycles. Distant footsteps. The ordinary pulse of a city that didn’t know two strangers were sitting in its corner, dissecting the soul of womanhood over tea.

"If you could free them," Kafka asked, lifting her gaze to his, "what would you do?"

He didn’t answer immediately. When he did, it came like wind through brittle leaves.

"I would take their pain. All of it. Even if it burned me to ash."

Something in Kafka’s chest ached.

"But what would be left of you?"

He looked at her then, truly looked. The chill of his presence softened for a breath.

"That is not important."

Kafka said nothing more.

Not because she disagreed. But because she knew exactly what it felt like to believe that.

And for the first time since he'd entered, she felt something other than unease.

She felt grief.

Not her own.

His.

She glanced at the newspaper again. The headline stared back in silence. Her voice returned softly.

"If it was mercy... why did she only kill four of them?"

The man said nothing.

"Why not all five? Why not herself? Why not the son?" Kafka's voice did not rise. She asked it like one would ask a question about the weather—without judgment, without fear. "What mercy was shown to the boy who is now alone in the world? Who now has to live with what his mother did?"

She met his gaze fully, her hazel eyes searching. "What truth do you see in that kind of choice?"

The man was quiet for a long moment.

Then he said, with something that was almost reverent, "Perhaps she believed he would survive where the others would not. Or perhaps she hesitated. Perhaps... even mercy trembles."

Kafka nodded, slowly.

"Or perhaps," she whispered, "she wasn’t trying to save anyone. Just to escape."

Neither of them spoke for a while after that.

And for a long moment, it felt like the entire bar held its breath. Kafka did not nessisarily want to step away from the man but she needed to clean up the cups left by a previous table. So, she stood and he spoke,

"You’re very kind," the man, didn’t meet her gaze. "But kindness often forgets the sharpness of the world."

Kafka smiled, but her hands trembled as she gathered the empty cups. She didn’t like how he said it. Like it was a warning.

He left without another word.

She looked at the name he signed on the tab.

A. Papadiamantis

And when the bell over the bar door jingled behind him, Kafka felt something cold spiral down her spine. Like someone had looked at her soul and measured it.

Outside, Alexandros Papadiamantis folded the newspaper and tucked it under his arm.

A quiet little building in the western district. Fourth floor.

A mother. A daughter.

He would save them both.

[virgilboy360]

Hey guys, it's me, It has been a while, so I basically try to figure out the whole 1.1 volts thing with aperture and potatos, Now I'm no electrician or a mathematician but I decided to do some research and try and put everything together, so I don't know if I was right or not, I also put down the years and how much the voltage would take together, Because if we're dealing with a massive facility then how the hell did it get all the power system through it, With 1.1 volts, Which is the same as a potato battery, So yeah, Please check if I'm wrong or right, have a nice night or day Wherever you are in the world

[modestbirdwizard]

Fix your shit, or make it better anyway!

Everyone has had that little something in their life that was just perfect in everyone, suited to it's task, purpose, and the user's personal preference… and everyone has also had that thing break on them, followed by years of white whaling for a better replacement. Learning to fix your shit is essential in an era that lives and breathes e-waste and demands us to be connected, and while the vast majority of cellphones are hard to fix and difficult to even open, there ARE plenty of other devices in our lives simple enough to engage with that the layman stands a chance.

Tools, example projects and places to look for guides under the jump:

Fixing old ipods, restoring butchered record players, game controller customization (or fixing joystick drift), turning your favorite headphones into a cable-swappable gaming headset , or making the perfect version of a computer keyboard are all possible with a relatively small set of tools and a small investment of your time. For almost any given tech project, you only need a few tools to get into, out of, and through the guts of any electronic device.

Tools of the trade:

A soldering iron (A pinecil or a TS100 are great choices for those who need something small. You will see even cheaper irons that look like they plug directly into the wall, but these are NOT soldering irons, they are the end component of a soldering station, a much larger kind of iron for more serious users. They do not have heat control and are DANGEROUS if not used with a soldering station.)

A set of spudgers, picks, and pry tools (Not the cheap plastic ones that come with every single tech repair component, though you'll need those too, they are basically free in the quanitity that you'll need them.)

Most important of all, a solid multi-bit screwdriver set for this purpose. (The ifixit mako kit is the golden god here, but don't be fooled: this array of bits in these sizes can be had for as little as 12 bucks. That said, investing in your tools is an investment in yourself.)

A set of precision tweezers

A bottle of 99% Isopropyl Alcohol And for the more complex jobs:

A basic multimeter (This is mostly used for diagnosis, looking for broken circuits and finding the voltages of various components.)

A Heatgun/hair dryer (More useful for specific tasks, such as removing Surface Mount components which tend to be very, very small.

With these tools, the world is yours. A word about soldering: People act like this is an insane skill to possess, something best left only to the most dedicated techno-wizard and warlocks, but that's simply not the case. It's actually as simple as using hot glue safely. I'll defer to Big Clive for better instructions than I could write. It's pronounced saw-dur, by the way.

I'd also recommend his account for the great resource that it is generally. While he doesn't get into the specifics of repairing any device, Clive does tear downs that show the general techniques you'll use to get inside of different gadgets. Extremely good second screen background noise.

For specific instructions for your device, you should check out ifixit. They have the largest database of tech repair guides online, though something tells me that an open, wiki-style option would be a fantastic idea. They also sell parts and specific tools you may need for a given task.

Sometimes, repairing your tech is as simple as cracking the case and swapping a hidden microSD card for a much larger one, or actually just unplugging one battery and installing a new one (kind of makes you wonder why they say they can't be repaired and glue them down). While I'd argue that most tech can be fixed, there are sadly some things that are just beyond the dedicated hobbyist. Chief among those are airpods and other small devices of that type. While they can certainly be opened and repaired, it's just incredibly fine work and I wouldn't recommend it. If a task seems too daunting for you, try checking with local phone shops to see if they offer repair. The cost of a replacement is usually much greater than the cost of a fix.

If your tech is unusable and in to be replaced, trying to fix it cannot possibly break it more. Give it a go!

[sibyl-of-space]

Troubleshooting & repair of a DIFFERENT old camcorder - audio & power issues - part 1

If there is one thing about me it is that I love old camcorders.

Device: JVC GR-250U MiniDV Camcorder

Symptoms: Issues charging, "Unit in Safeguard Mode" warning, unable to rewind, audio playback cuts in & out on inner speakers/AV out (FireWire transfer fine)

Service Manual: https://elektrotanya.com/jvc_gr_d250.rar/download.html#dl

TL;DR: Power stuff mostly handled, audio stuff not handled, I hate soldering tiny micro components

Well this camcorder actually started borking it about 2 years ago and I only now could be bothered to open it up and try and figure out what's up. First things first, I focused on the power issues, because I realized there's a chance the audio issue is a result of the power issues. Power issues do all sorts of stuff. You never know.

Now that I have a multimeter the first steps I took were:

Confirmed A/C adapter is outputting the voltage it's supposed to (confirmed)

Opened it up - this was a nightmare, I might make a teardown video at some point to walk people through it because it was SO annoying even WITH the schematics PDF

Tried to confirm voltages on various parts of the board (this was difficult because the circuits are really complicated and the schematic diagrams are A Lot, but it looked to me like for the most part everything was getting the expected voltages when powered on)

At this point I kinda got stuck so I did the tried and true method of "watch some videos of people who know what the fuck they're doing troubleshooting a similar piece of technology" and found this -

First off, I am jealous about how much easier that camcorder is to tear down than mine was, but anyway. In this case, the issue was a blown fuse. I realized I hadn't even thought to check or look for fuses on my camcorder, so I did that.

And sure enough: the first fuse I saw in big yellow letters labeled on the circuit board, F6001, when I tested across it there was no continuity. Looking at the schematics sheet this fuse is like the first point of failure right off the main power before it goes to just about every other part of the device, including and especially the battery, so that would explain most of the issues I've had with powering it. It also explains why the software stuff worked fine but it would fail when it had to do something mechanically taxing like rewinding a tape - bigger power draw, I imagine.

ANYWAY, just like the guy in the video, I decided I should just try to jumper across it to make it work. I was very idealistic at this time and thought if it worked I could order a replacement fuse and then properly install that.

I had not yet learned how much of a fucking nightmare soldering this stupid thing was going to be.

After 3 hours of my life that I will never get back, I have the ugliest solder job known to man, and have melted several adjacent components, but luckily not damaged them:

Perhaps you don't have a good sense for just how infuriatingly tiny this stupid thing is. Here is my thumb for scale.

I know the picture is blurry as hell. My phone didn't want to zoom in this much because of how freaking tiny this stupid shit is. Anyway. It's fine. I did it. Somehow. Eventually. Very, very eventually.

Verifying the jump was also a pain because there are absolutely no obvious connection points immediately after the fuse on this side of the board, and I cannot emphasize enough how annoying it is to take this circuit board out and access the backside, but whatever, it's fine, I found a capacitor on the backside that worked as a point to test the connection and was able to verify on like my 3rd fucking attempt that I actually soldered across the dumb thing.

I am absolutely not replacing this with another fuse. If it gets overloaded and explodes at some point that's just the will of the gods.

ANYWAY, once that was done I put it mostly back together to test it out. And I am actually pleased to report the power issues are much better. If it's plugged into the A/C directly there are no issues, and even on battery power it seems to charge more, hold a charge better, and give me the "UNIT IN SAFEGUARD MODE" error way less frequently. I have still gotten the error, but I wonder if that will go away if I get a new battery or just do a full battery charge + drain to 0 cycle a couple times. It's much more usable now which is good.

Unfortunately this did not solve the audio issue. I am going to have to learn a lot more about reading schematic sheets to figure out the audio issue. One hint I have is that looking at the outputs from the audio chip, the outputs for the speaker and the A/V out ARE COMPLETELY SEPARATE PINS AND CIRCUITS. Which means since I am getting the same symptom on both, the issue lies somewhere between reading from the tape and getting to that audio chip, in all likelihood.

I will further troubleshoot the audio issue another day. For today I have had enough with this stupid tiny circuit board and its dumb small components.

[aradnouri]

Struggling to Start Your Diesel Generator? Here's How to Fix It!

A diesel generator is a critical backup power source, but what if it won’t start? 🤔 Don’t worry—here are the top reasons and quick fixes you need to know!

🔹 Why It Happens: ✅ Battery Issues: Corrosion, low charge, or faulty starter motor ✅ Fuel System Problems: Contaminated diesel, clogged filters, or air pockets ✅ Alternator Malfunction: A drained battery might indicate a failing alternator ✅ Faulty Injectors: If you smell diesel but the engine won’t ignite, injectors might be blocked ✅ Sensor or ECU Failures: Many modern generators rely on electronic controls

🔧 How to Fix It: ✔ Test your battery voltage & clean terminals ✔ Use high-quality fuel & replace filters regularly ✔ Inspect & service injectors for proper fuel delivery ✔ Check your alternator’s output to ensure battery charging ✔ Scan for ECU error codes to diagnose electrical failures

🚀 Routine maintenance prevents breakdowns & extends generator life!

🔗 Read the full troubleshooting guide here.

[sngl-led-auto-lights]

I have a 2007 Chevy Avalanche and the headlights and taillights come on and it tries to turn over and it doesn’t, it’s weak. Can it be the battery?

Yes, a weak or failing battery is the most likely cause of your symptoms in a 2007 Chevy Avalanche. Here's a breakdown of why, along with troubleshooting steps:

Why the Battery is Suspect Symptom Match:

"Lights come on but won't crank/cranks weak": Headlights/taillights require minimal power (5–15 amps), while the starter needs 400–600+ amps. A weak battery might power lights but fail under high-load demands.

"Tries to turn over but weak": Indicates low voltage reaching the starter. Avalanche-Specific Factors:

Leaky Batteries: Older batteries (3+ years) lose cranking power.

Corroded Terminals: Common on GM trucks; causes voltage drop.

Parasitic Drain: Faulty modules or aftermarket accessories slowly drain the battery.

Troubleshooting Steps Check Battery Voltage:

Use a multimeter on battery terminals (key off).

Healthy: 12.4V–12.7V.

Weak: Below 12.2V → Needs charging/replacement.

Critical Failure: Below 11.8V → Will not crank. Test Under Load:

Have an assistant crank while monitoring voltage.

Voltage Drops Below 9.6V: Battery can't hold charge → Replace.

Voltage Drops Below 10.5V: Weak/starter struggling → Jump-start test. Clean Battery Terminals:

Remove cables → Scrape corrosion off terminals/posts with a wire brush → Reattach tightly. Try Jump-Starting:

If jumps successfully starts the truck → Bad battery or charging issue.

Fails even when jumped? → Bad starter, ground, or wiring.

Other Possible Causes (If Battery Tests Fine) Component Symptoms Overlapping w/Battery How to Check

Starter Motor Slow/weak cranking, clicks/no crank Tap starter lightly with a hammer while cranking; if starts → Replace. Ground Connections Voltage drops under load Inspect chassis ground near battery/starter → Clean corrosion. Alternator Battery not recharging while driving Test charging voltage at idle → Should be 13.5–14.8V. Starter Solenoid/Relay No crank/single click Swap starter relay with identical one (e.g., horn relay).

Quick Avalanche Checks Fuse Box: Inspect underhood fuse/relay center (common failure).

Ignition Switch: Faulty switch can cut power to starter circuit.

Fuel Pump: Listen for hum at key-on (no hum = fuel problem).

Recommendation

Start with the battery → 90% of "weak crank with lights on" cases are due to battery issues. If the battery is 3–5+ years old, replace it (use a group 75 battery with ≥700 CCA).

If newer, charge it fully and have it load-tested at any auto parts store (free service).

If a new battery doesn't fix it, suspect a starter or corroded ground cable at the engine block. For wiring checks, see an Avalanche-specific wiring diagram (https://gmt800parts.com/wiring-guides). Safety Tip: Always disconnect the negative cable first and reconnect last to avoid shorts!

[adafruit]

Desk of Ladyada - Kiddo Kart Repair 🔋👶

BabyAda's bumper car toy stopped working after overnight charging - turns out 24V charger + 12V battery = problems. Quick fix: replaced battery with correct one from DigiKey. Pro tip -Always check voltage compatibility!