#optional protocol methods

[reiding-writing]

Heyyyy, I think it would be soo cool if you could write a scenario where cold!reader actually works a case like idk but yk the typical talking w witnesses or family members.

I also would loveee to know what her interrogation style is like, morgen was always pretty aggressive and Hotch was always so straightforward etc. so I would love to know how she interrogates suspects.

Have a nice one, ly and ur work sm !! ^_^

THE REID TECHNIQUE. /spencer reid/

you volunteer to interview a middle-aged woman suspected of kidnapping a little girl.

cold!reader 4.2k series masterlist. main masterlist.

a/n | had this one in the works for a few weeks after learning about the reid technique in my forensic psych lecture ✊

The clock above the whiteboard marks every second with an unforgiving tick. It's been twelve hours since the child, eight years old, brown hair in braids, green jacket, was last seen.

You know too well how thin the margins are.

“Local PD has brought in a suspect. Margaret Ellery. Lives four streets over from the family. No hard evidence yet, just circumstantial.” Hotch discards his phone in his pocket.

You push off the table, the movement casual, but inside something sharp and certain slices through the haze. Margaret Ellery. The name means nothing to the others yet, just another possibility. To you, it burns.

“They've got CCTV placing her car near the park at the estimated time of abduction,��� Emily says, flicking through images on her tablet. “No witnesses saw the actual snatch, but...” She hesitates. “It’s something,”

“Something," you echo, voice flat.

You can feel Spencer’s gaze flick towards you from his desk. You don’t look at him. If you do, he’ll see it—the thing coiling under your skin, the certainty you can’t explain.

You know it was her.

The others begin discussing who should lead the interview, voices overlapping—Emily suggesting herself, Morgan arguing the woman might respond better to a softer touch—and for a moment, you let them talk.

Then, calmly, you speak.

“I’ll do it.”

The words drop like stones into the room.

The conversation stalls. Morgan frowns, one eyebrow lifting. Hotch studies you, impassive. Spencer’s pencil stills in his hand.

You don’t volunteer for interrogations. Everyone knows it. You only step in when everything else has failed—the nuclear option. The last resort.

You have built your reputation on results, not likability. You dismantle people, piece by piece, until there's nothing left but the truth. It's not pretty. It's not kind. It's necessary.

But this time, without waiting for anyone to fail, you want it.

Hotch’s mouth tightens into a line. He doesn’t like it, but he also knows better than to argue when you make that face—the one you wear now, cold and still, like a weapon waiting to be drawn.

“Are you certain?” he asks.

You nod once. Precise. Final.

“She’s guilty,” you say. Not a question. Not a theory. A statement of fact.

“How do you know?” Emily asks, cautious.

You flick your gaze to her, then away again. You don't explain things like this. You never have. You just know.

Hotch’s brow furrows. “You’re sure?”

You nod once. Crisp. Certain.

“I can get her to talk.”

He hesitates. You don’t blame him. It’s not just that they’re worried about the woman cracking under your methods, it’s that they’re worried you will push too hard, dig too deep, and leave something broken beyond repair—something in her, something in yourself.

But there’s no time for cautious sensibilities. There’s a child missing. The longer they dither, the colder the trail gets.

Hotch considers for a beat longer, then relents with a sharp nod. “On your lead.”

Morgan shifts his weight, clearly cautious. “I’ll second,”

“No.”

Hotch exhales slowly, measuring you with a look that’s half reluctant approval, half silent warning. “You know the protocol.”

You incline your head with a sigh of exasperation. You know it backwards.

“I work better alone,” you say calmly, before he can open his mouth to suggest otherwise.

That’s non-negotiable. You’ve explained it a thousand times—too many cooks spoil the broth. Too many variables ruin the interrogation. One misplaced glance, one ill-timed question, one unspoken judgement radiating off a team member— it can destroy hours of work.

No one interrupts you when you’re working. No one even breathes too loudly.

Hotch nods once. Reluctant but resigned.

“Room Three,” he says. “She’s waiting.”

You turn sharply on your heel, the heels of your boots clicking lightly against the floor, and make your way down the corridor without looking back.

Behind you, the team watches you go in silence.

Spencer’s gaze lingers the longest.

He understands. Not completely—no one ever could—but enough.

Enough to know that once you step into that room, you’ll become something else. Something sharper. Harder. Merciless in your precision.

And God help the woman on the other side of the glass.

—

You pause outside the interrogation room, hand resting lightly on the door handle. Through the one-way glass, you see her: hunched, fidgeting, a picture of nervous innocence.

She’s shorter than you expected. Plumper. Her hands twist nervously at the hem of her cardigan.

She looks like someone’s kindly aunt. To the untrained eye, she might seem harmless. Sad, even.

You don’t let it fool you.

You close your eyes for a moment. Centre yourself.

This is not about rage. Rage clouds the senses. This is about control. Subtlety. Precision.

When you open your eyes again, you’re a blank slate.

The woman jumps slightly at your entrance. Good. She’s on edge already. You file the information away for later use.

You close the door with a soft click and cross to the chair opposite her, sitting down with a deliberate, unhurried grace. You say nothing for a long moment, simply studying her, letting the silence stretch taut between you.

She fidgets again, clearing her throat. Her eyes flicker up to meet yours and then away, unable to hold your gaze.

You watch her, utterly still.

Already, you can see the cracks beginning to form.

You offer a thin, perfunctory smile.

“Good afternoon,” you introduce yourself, voice low and even. “I’m going to ask you a few questions, alright?”

She licks her lips nervously. “I already told the others— I didn’t do anything,”

You tilt your head slightly. Not a challenge, not an agreement. Just an acknowledgement.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “We’ll go over everything again. Just to be thorough.”

You slide a thin manilla file onto the table between you. The movement is calm, almost lazy.

In reality, every microexpression, every twitch of her fingers, every catch in her breath — you’re cataloguing all of it.

You see guilt. Not the guilt of a wrongfully accused woman, but the heavy, aching guilt of someone who knows precisely what they’ve done and is terrified of the consequences.

You suppress the flicker of satisfaction that rises in your chest.

This will be easier than you thought.

You fold your hands neatly on the table.

“Let’s begin.”

You watch her closely, noting the way her shoulders stiffen under your gaze. She’s nervous.

“I’d first like to briefly remind you that you don’t have to answer any question that you’re uncomfortable with, and you have the right to an attorney if you require one,” You keep your tone measured, almost conversational, as you begin. “This interview is being recorded, and can be submitted as evidence if needed in court,”

Margret’s response is nothing more than a brief nod, and you quickly move on.

“We’ve spoken to several people who know you, Margaret,” you say, glancing briefly at the file in front of you for show, though you don’t need to. You know the contents backwards already. “Your neighbours speak highly of you. Friendly. Involved. Always ready to lend a hand.”

She swallows, nodding a little. As if being agreeable will somehow absolve her.

You continue, letting the words come slowly, giving them weight.

“You knew the Hartleys quite well?”

She shifts uncomfortably in her seat, hands twisting harder in the hem of her cardigan. “We… we live near each other, yes. I used to babysit for them sometimes, when Claire was first back at work,”

You incline your head, as if pleased by the admission. You knew that information already of course, but the fact that she’s supplying the truth to you early is a good sign.

“And you’ve stayed in touch since then?”

Her mouth twists slightly. “Not really. They… they got busy. New friends. Things change,”

You let the silence settle for a beat, as if considering that. Then you lean forward, just slightly, enough that the space between you shrinks.

“The thing is,” you say, voice still calm, almost gentle, “we have several witnesses who say they saw your car near Westwood Park yesterday afternoon.”

You watch her stiffen, the flicker of fear crossing her face before she can mask it. You press on, smooth and relentless.

“That’s the park where Elsie Hartley was last seen.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again. She shakes her head, a tight, jerky movement.

“I must have been passing through. I had errands— the shops—”

You raise an eyebrow, unimpressed. “At four-thirty in the afternoon?”

She falters. You don’t need to press the point yet. Just plant the seed. Let it fester.

You sit back again, steepling your fingers lightly.

“We’re not here to attack you, Margaret,” you say, voice dropping slightly. Softer. Sympathetic. “We just want to understand what happened.”

Her eyes dart to the door briefly. You catch the movement, file it away. Already thinking of escape.

You won’t allow it.

“Things happen to people,” you continue, letting your voice thicken just slightly with understanding. “Painful things. Things that change how we see the world.”

You see the way she flinches, barely perceptible. A tiny tell, but enough.

Good. She’s listening now. Feeling now.

“Tell me about your daughter,” you say quietly.

Her face crumples before she can stop it, a raw flash of grief, there and gone.

She tries to cover it up, sitting up straighter, forcing a small, brittle smile.

“She… passed away. A long time ago.”

You nod slowly. “Nine years.”

Her hands clench into fists in her lap.

You lean in again, lowering your voice further.

“Grief can… distort things,” you murmur. “It can make you see injustice where there is none. It can make you desperate to fix something, to make up for what you lost.”

Her breathing has quickened. You see the pulse hammering at her throat.

“Sometimes,” you continue, “it makes people do things they never thought themselves capable of. Good people. Kind people. People who were simply… overwhelmed by sadness.”

She’s trembling now. Just slightly. You act as though you don’t notice.

“You saw Elsie playing in the park,” you say softly. “Maybe you thought her parents didn’t appreciate her enough. Maybe you thought you could give her the love your own daughter never got to fully experience.”

Tears are brimming in her eyes now, but she’s fighting them. Fighting herself.

She shakes her head weakly. “I didn’t— I wouldn’t—”

You don’t argue. You don’t contradict her.

You simply sit back, offering a small, understanding nod.

“Of course you didn’t mean for things to get so complicated. You just wanted to make things right.”

The denial is there, trembling on her lips, but you ignore it.

You pivot neatly, seamlessly, back to the facts.

“You said you were running errands,” you say, as if returning to a mundane detail. “Tell me about that. Which shops?”

She stares at you, panic flickering behind her eyes. She wasn't ready for the shift. That’s the point.

“I— I went to 7-Eleven. And then… the pharmacy. I had a prescription,”

You scribble something meaningless onto your pad, nodding slowly.

“The pharmacy?” you echo. “Do you have the receipt?”

She freezes.

“No,” she says after a moment. “I must have thrown it away,”

You don’t react. You just jot down another line.

“Which 7-Eleven?” you ask, tone still mild.

She blinks. “The one on Briar Lane,”

You hum thoughtfully, making another note. She’s lying. You know it. And she knows you know it.

You give her another moment to stew in her own fear before steering the conversation back.

“Funny thing, Margaret,” you say, lightly conversational, “we pulled CCTV from Briar Lane yesterday. The store, the pharmacy, the petrol station.”

You look up, meeting her eyes directly for the first time since you sat down.

“You’re not on any of it.”

The colour drains from her face.

You don’t press. Not yet. Let her feel the walls closing in. Let her suffocate on the inevitability of it.

She shifts in her seat, wringing her hands.

“I must have got the times wrong,” she mutters weakly.

“Of course,” you say smoothly. “It’s easy to get confused. Especially when you’re upset.”

She clings to the lifeline you’ve thrown her, nodding desperately.

“Yes. Yes, I was… distracted,”

You offer her a small, almost pitying smile.

“I understand, Margaret. Truly. No one’s here to judge you.”

Another beat of silence. You watch her, patient and unblinking.

“I can see how hard this is for you,” you say after a moment, voice softening again. “Reliving yesterday. Remembering what happened.”

Her mouth trembles. She presses her lips together tightly, like a child trying not to cry.

“I didn’t… I didn’t take her,” she says, almost whispering.

You nod thoughtfully, as if weighing her words.

“Of course,” you say again. Calm. Unthreatening.

Then, without warning, you steer the conversation right back to the beginning.

“Tell me again what you were doing between three and five yesterday afternoon.”

Her face crumples. She wasn’t ready for the cycle to start again.

But you are tireless. Patient. Merciless.

That’s the thing about interrogations — it’s not the dramatic threats or slammed fists on the table that break people. It’s the relentlessness. The subtle erosion of certainty, the slow dismantling of lies.

She tries again.

“I was at home, actually. I remembered— after the pharmacy I went home. I didn’t feel well.”

“Hmm,” you hum noncommittally. “Your neighbour said they saw your car leave around two, and you didn’t return until gone six.”

You tilt your head, watching her carefully.

“They must be mistaken,” she says quickly, too quickly.

You don’t argue. You just let the inconsistency hang there between you, a slow, toxic drip of doubt.

The denials come more frequently now, growing more desperate with each cycle.

“I wasn’t near the park.”

“I don’t even know where she disappeared from.”

“I just… I was having a bad day.”

You let each one slide past you without reaction, without resistance.

Each time she throws out a denial, you seamlessly redirect — not forcefully, not aggressively, but subtly, like water flowing around a stone.

Back to the CCTV.

Back to the witnesses.

Back to her tangled, faltering story.

You give her a moment to stew in her latest denial. Watch the way she clutches at the hem of her cardigan like it’s a lifeline. Her breathing is shallow now, you can almost hear it hitching every few seconds.

She’s trying to believe her own lies. Trying to build walls faster than you can knock them down.

You lean back slightly in your chair, as if relaxing, as if you have all the time in the world. Then you let your voice slip into a more analytical register.

“Let’s review what we know,” you say, tapping your pen lightly against the table.

The soft sound makes her flinch. Good.

“Your neighbour saw your car leave at two o’clock sharp. CCTV from Briar Lane shows you were not at the pharmacy or the store, as you claimed. In fact—” you pause, leafing slowly through the papers on your clipboard, letting the moment stretch, “—your car was picked up again. Not in Briar Lane. But parked a block from Westwood Park.”

You place a printed image on the table between you: the grainy still of a pale blue Volvo estate. Her car. The timestamp in the corner reads 4:14 p.m.

Margaret pales visibly, staring at it.

“That’s not me,” she whispers, voice breaking.

You arch a brow, slow and sceptical.

“Registration plates don’t lie.”

She opens her mouth. Closes it. Her eyes are wild now, darting across the table, as if searching for some unseen escape hatch.

You press the advantage mercilessly, but with a surgeon’s precision.

“You told us you were at home,” you say calmly. “Yet your vehicle was a block away from the site of a child’s abduction.”

You let the words hang heavily in the air. They don’t need dressing up. They’re lethal enough.

“I just— I just parked for a bit. I wasn’t feeling well—”

You shake your head, slow and deliberate.

“No pharmacy visit. No store. No proof of you being anywhere else.”

You place another sheet on the table, another CCTV still, this time capturing her figure, blurred but unmistakeable, moving across the park entrance at 4:20 p.m.

“Witnesses place you in the vicinity. Cameras place you there. Your alibi doesn’t hold.”

Her lips tremble. You can see the walls crumbling now, piece by piece.

You don’t drive the knife in yet.

Instead, you shift your posture — lean forward, just slightly, closing the space between you by mere inches.

Subtle, calculated.

Not enough to threaten. Just enough to pull her attention inward, to focus it entirely on you.

You keep your gaze steady, non-threatening but utterly unwavering.

Your body language speaks louder than your words. I am your only way out of this.

Margaret's eyes flicker between your face and the photographs, her breath hitching audibly now.

You watch as the fight starts to bleed out of her.

Still, you’re careful. She’s fragile now. One wrong move and she’ll retreat into full panic, barricade herself behind the last reserves of her denial.

You soften your expression by degrees. Let the razor edge dull into something gentler. More… understanding.

Margaret sniffs loudly, wiping at her eyes with trembling fingers. Her composure is breaking apart under the sheer, relentless weight of the truth pressing down on her.

“I just—” she chokes. “I didn’t— I didn’t plan anything—”

You allow a small, almost imperceptible nod. Not agreement. Just… acceptance.

You lower your voice, pitch it softer.

“I know, Margaret,” you say quietly. “I believe you. You were overwhelmed. You weren’t thinking straight. You saw a little girl alone, vulnerable—”

“She was sitting by herself!” Margaret blurts suddenly, anguished. “Just swinging on those stupid swings— and no one— no one was watching—!”

The confession hangs there, raw and shaking.

You don’t react. Don’t let the triumph show. You simply soften further, offering a small, almost maternal tilt of your head.

“You wanted to keep her safe,” you murmur. “Like any mother would.”

Margaret’s face crumples. Tears spill over at last, fat and helpless.

You fold your hands neatly on the table. Stay calm. Stay steady. Be the lighthouse in her storm.

—

“She’s using phased psychological reinforcement,” Spencer says quietly, almost in awe. Like you’ve never quite been so alluring.

Emily glances at him. “In English, please?”

Spencer shifts slightly, tapping his fingers against the glass in a subtle rhythm.

“She’s employing the Reid Technique,” he explains. “It has nine stages that are worked through in order to achieve a state of psychological comfort that elicits more honesty from the suspect,”

“The Reid technique?” Emily raised an eyebrow.

“It’s uh, named after John Reid, he was a police officer in Chicago during the 1950s. It revolutionised formal interviewing, although it’s actually very difficult to implement in practice, because if the suspect catches on then they’re likely to shut down,”

He nods towards you, still composed, still relentless inside the room.

“She’s between stage four and stage five right now— Addressing why the suspect hasn’t confessed, and using mirroring tactics to keep the suspect engaged,”

Morgan hums low under his breath, arms crossed tightly over his chest. “Sounds scientific,” he goads.

—

Margaret hiccups through her tears, twisting the sleeves of her cardigan into knots.

“I didn’t—” she whispers again.

You make no move to comfort her. You don’t offer tissues. You don't even shift your posture.

You simply remain present. Solid. Reassuring by your very stillness. In her shattered mind, you are the only constant left. Exactly where you want her.

You let the silence stretch just long enough for Margaret to drown in it, her sobs the only sound filling the sterile room.

Then, softly, so gently it’s almost a caress, you push the conversation where it needs to go.

“Margaret,” you say, voice low but firm, threading compassion through every syllable, “I’m not here to judge you.”

She drags her tear-reddened eyes up to meet yours, desperate and wide.

You offer the smallest of smiles. Not kind. Not cruel. Just human.

“You loved your daughter, right?”

Her face crumples. She gives a broken little nod, a whimper catching in her throat.

You lower your voice even further, until it's barely above a whisper. “And now there's this... ache. This emptiness. It’s unbearable, isn’t it?”

She presses her sleeve to her mouth, trying to smother another sob.

You let the moment hang there, let her sit in the shared understanding you’ve carefully, ruthlessly constructed.

“Were you trying to cause trouble, Margaret?” you ask, tilting your head ever so slightly, as if puzzled. “Or were you simply trying to give that little girl the love you never got to finish giving your daughter?”

It’s everything.

It’s everything she’s been trying to make sense of for the last twelve hours.

And you’ve handed it to her, neatly gift-wrapped, an explanation she can live with.

Her face crumples entirely.

“I didn’t mean to hurt anyone,” she wails, folding in on herself. “I just— I just saw her— all alone— they weren’t even watching her! She was just sitting there, swinging by herself, and I thought—”

She breaks off, hiccupping on a sob.

You remain silent, giving her the space to pour it out.

“I thought— she deserves better. Someone who’d see her. Someone who’d love her properly. I could— I could do that. I could give her what she needed.”

Tears stream down her face now, unchecked.

“She’s happy with me,” Margaret insists desperately, as if trying to convince herself as much as you. “She’s smiling. She’s laughing. I’ve never— I’ve never seen her laugh like that. Not once when she was with them.”

You allow yourself a single, careful breath.

But you’re not finished yet.

You shift your tone again, turning almost maternal, gentle and firm.

“Margaret,” you say, leaning in just a fraction, letting her feel the sincerity. “I believe you care for her. I do.”

It’s not a lie. Margaret does care. In her own warped, desperate way. “But she’s scared. She misses her family. She needs to come home.”

Margaret sobs harder, hands shaking so badly she nearly knocks the water cup off the table.

“Help me bring her home safely, Margaret. Please.”

For a long, fragile moment, she just cries.

And then, brokenly, she nods.

“She’s—” she mumbles through the tears. “12A, Eversham Court… I made up the spare room for her, I got her toys and clothes—”

She’s rambling now, stumbling over herself to spill every detail she can think of.

You don’t interrupt.

Outside the room, you know Hotch will already be sending officers to the location, moving fast but discreetly.

Time still matters. Every second counts.

Everything has been recorded. Every word, every sob, every admission captured, preserved, incontrovertible.

You stand slowly, gathering the papers with smooth efficiency.

As you move towards the door, Margaret’s voice breaks behind you, small and shuddering.

“I didn’t mean to hurt her,” she says again, voice thick with tears. “Tell them that. Please. Tell them I just wanted to love her—”

You pause, hand on the doorframe, and glance back over your shoulder.

Your face gives away nothing.

“I’ll tell them,” you say simply.

It’s not a promise. Not really. But it’s enough.

The door opens with a quiet click. Uniformed officers step inside, moving with trained efficiency.

Margaret doesn’t fight. She’s too broken to resist. She sobs helplessly as they read her her rights, the words barely cutting through her cries of apology. “I’m sorry,” she gasps as they cuff her. “I’m so sorry—”

You watch silently for a moment as they lead her away.

She’s still crying. Still apologising to no one in particular.

You feel no satisfaction. No triumph. Just the faint, hollow weight of inevitability.

You step back into the corridor, letting the door swing shut behind you.

The others are waiting. Hotch nods once at you, brisk and approving. Emily looks grim but relieved. Morgan mutters something under his breath that sounds like "damn," but you don’t linger on it.

Your gaze flicks automatically to Spencer.

He’s watching you the way he always does after you work. Not with fear, not with pity, but with something quieter. Something sharper.

Admiration. And something almost akin to academic attraction.

“Seven minutes, twenty two seconds,”

You don’t smile. You don’t say a word. You simply walk past him, your boots clicking steadily down the hall.

New record.

[wlwoceaneyes]

Lipstick Service Part 4 // Keeping promises

pairing: emily prentiss x fem!bau!reader word count: 1752 k summary: The mission is over, but sleep won’t come. Emily’s touch still lingers on your skin, even as her voice turns cold in daylight. You both pretend nothing happened. But when you knock on her door that night—wearing only what she told you to—pretending is no longer an option. A/N: Appreciate all the support :) This was never supposed to become a series, but here we are —and I’m thrilled you’re along for the ride! If you enjoyed it, drop a comment, hit that like, or share it with someone who might too. Makes my day, truly!And yes… there will be a final Part 5. One last chapter to bring it all full circle.

Part One Part Two Part Three

It’s too early for clear thoughts. The only thing keeping your mind from drifting is the coffee between your hands. The James Sutton case, the one you had to go undercover for, is barely eight hours behind you. Last night’s clothes lie crumpled in your travel bag, the fabric still heavy with smoke and perfume from the bar. You threw your toiletries carelessly on top. No time for neatness, no time for anything to settle.

Another case tore you from sleep, and from Emily’s arms. You can still feel her. You can still feel her. The ghost of her breath lingering against your skin. You remember how your back met the wall when her lips moved across your neck. How her fingers had just begun to slip under the hem of your blouse and then her phone rang.

In a blink of an eye, all warmth vanished from her features. She snapped back into the role of Unit Chief with chilling precision. The fire in her eyes died like someone had flipped a switch. You assume it’s reflex by now, learned discipline, practiced detachment. Still, it leaves a bruise on your soul and a bitter taste on your tongue.

You bite your lip hard enough to bring yourself back into reality. Back to the voices of your colleagues, to birdsong filtering through the open window, and to the extremly sweet coffee in your hand that Tara always teases you for. Your fingers trail along the papercup, then press into the cool surface of the table. A shiver crawls up your spine, mirroring the unrest in your chest. You exhale and look up.

Emily.

That cool, composed voice that makes orders sound like a caress. She’s entirely in character, laying out the facts with clinical precision, sticking to protocol so tightly it almost makes her unreachable again. But she can’t hide everything from you. Not the shadows beneath her eyes, not the hard set of her mouth, not the way she sits, tense and too still. You’ve seen behind all of it. You’ve been closer than anyone else here. And you know this is her armor, the only way she knows how to stay in control.

“Wheels up in thirty,” she says and just like that, the room stirs into motion. Everyone moves quickly, methodically. Except for you. Your hands move slower than they should, like your body’s trying to stretch this moment out just a little bit longet. But Emily knows you. Her eyes find you across the room, sharp and unmistakably aware.

“Pack your things, Y/N,” she says, and her voice cuts through the air.

You flinch, caught in hesitaation. You nod, avoiding her gaze. The chill in her voice is intimidating, there’s no recognition in her eyes. There is no trace of the heat that once passed between you,  no flicker oft he woman who touched you last night. Just commands and the job.

“On it,” you reply coolly, as you sling your bag over your shoulder and follow Luke out of the conference room.

“What’s up with Prentiss?” he asks mid-bite of his sandwich. “She’s been edgy since yesterday.”

"I don’t know“, you lie. You press your tongue to the roof of your mouth, swallowing the truth whole. You know exactly what’s wrong. But some things don’t belong in daylight.

Hours later, under the merciless sun, you’re at the crime scene. The air clings to you like a second skin. Your clothes are damp, and the heat pulses beneath them like a heartbeat. Everything around you wavers in the shimmer of it. Melted asphalt. The sting of hot metal. The sour mix of rubber, blood, and oil thick in your lungs. You roll your shoulders to ease the tension, to try to focus on the evidence. So far, nothing stands out. Until Luke calls you over and moments later you kneel beside him, both of you examining a shell casing in the dirt.

“What do you think?” he asks.

You raise your camera, take a photo beforen you speak. “He fired twice,” you begin, pausing as you notice a uniformed officer‘s gaze lingering on you, “He was hiding in the barn and waited for his victim. Seems like he missed the first shot.”

“The footprints agree,” Luke says, lifting the casing. “No blood here either.”

You both rise, dusting off and make your way to the first casing, the one found earlier. “He hit the target here,” you murmur, gesturing to the blood spatter. You point it out, and instruct an officer to take a wide-angle shot oft he scenery. “Let’s follow the trail.”

As you move forward, Luke leans towards you, his voice teasing. “Someone couldn’t stop looking at you,” he says, flashing that playful grin of his.

You nudge him in the ribs, but your eyes flicker toward the officer. He looks away, a smile tugging at his lips. You say nothing, try not to react. Try to ignore the heat behind that look. But you’re a profiler, you read people for a living. You can see the depth in his gaze, the weight behind it.

“Knock it off,” you mutter, and kick a stone out of the way.

“I’m just saying…” Luke starts, but stops mid-sentence.

Emily appears behind you like a shadow pulled from the sun.

“All good?” she asks, tone neutral but her eyes are fixed only on you.

“Perfect,” you answer quietly. Luke glances between you both, suddenly unsure.

“Good,” Emily replies and huffs. Her lips press together, and you see the flicker of her tongue trace the edge of her mouth. “We need clear minds out here.” Then she turns and walks away, the air seems to shift in her abscence, like a pressure releasing.

Tara steps beside you and raises a brow as she watches Emily walk away. “If looks could kill, that officer would be ash,” she says, brushing dust off her pants as she leans on a nearby post.

Luke chuckles under his breath as he watches Emily while she talked to another officer. “She pretends nothing’s going on,” he says softly, giving you a pointed look. “But come on, we’re not blind.”

They’re fishing for an answer, you can feel it. But you don’t bite, you can’t. Because the heat beneath your skin has nothing to do with the sun.

-----------

You’re grateful for the air-conditioned lobby of the motel, as the cool air washes over your overheated skin. Your skin tingles from hours under the sun. It’s quiet here, smelling of old furniture and something else in the air, something like anticipation.

You walk slowly down the hallway, there is no need to rush. Emily’s just twenty steps infront of you. Luke and Tara’s rooms are behind you now and just the two of you remain.

She stops, staring down at her key card. But she doesn’t move, not until you’re beside her.

“You were popular today,” she says without looking at you.

“You mean the officer?” you reply and take a steady breath.

“Well,” Emily tilts her head slightly, finally turning to face you, “He seemed quite taken with you.”

“Wasn’t mutual,” you murmur. Silence settles like a heavy cloak between you. Your eyes drop to her hand, white-knuckled around the door handle.

“You did good work today,” she says, dodging the inevitable. She slides the key into the lock.

“But?” you ask gently, studying her tense expression.

“There’s no but,” she replies, quieter now, more controlled. “Just… this isn’t a game.”

“I know,” you answer, confusion blooming in your chest. “Not with him. Not with you. I don’t play games.”

Her gaze meets yours for the briefest moment and in that look, everything she can’t say lives and breathes. Then she opens her door without another word and slips inside. You’re left alone in the hallway with nothing but your certainty and a heart that won’t quiet down.

You linger for a moment, staring at the closed door, waiting for something—anything. But nothing happens. Eventually, you turn and walk back to your room. Each step feels strangely distant, like your body moves ahead while your mind stays behind.

Inside your room, the silence wraps around you. The room is still, but your thoughts aren’t, when you make yourself ready for bed.

You lie in bed, wide awake. An hour passes, but sleep never even tries to come. Your body vibrates with restless heat. Your thoughts are loud, tangled, filled with her. You remember her mouth. Her words.

Next time you want to catch someone's eye, wear nothing but this lipstick. And make sure it's only me who ever gets to see it.

Your decision is quiet but rings through you like thunder. You get up. Darkness cloaks your room as you shut the door behind you. You pull your long black coat tighter around your bare skin, your legs are shaky. Your heels echo softly on the tiled floor, each click of your heels syncs with your heartbeat.

Cold air slips through the coat, brushing against nothing but skin. You shake off the chill, press your lips together to refresh the lipstick, and stop in front of Emily’s door.

You knock twice.

The door opens slowly. A warm, golden light spills into the dark hallway, illuminating your face, tracing your collarbones, and sinking lower. Emily stands in the doorway, barefaced and seemingly just as sleepless as you. Her eyes roam over you and pause — on your lips, on the sliver of bare skin just beneath your coat.

You watch her swallow. See the way her jaw clenches. That look in her eyes, hot, dark and raw. It undresses you already, it holds a promise, you look forward too.

“I did what you told me,” you whisper, leaning against the doorframe. The coat shifts, revealing the curve of your bare leg. “I’m wearing nothing but the lipstick,” you add, stepping closer, voice trembling with truth “And no one but you is allowed to see it.”

She looks at you like you’re something precious. Like you’re already belong to her. Her eyes darken and you feel what’s coming before she even moves. Her fingers wrap around your wrist, firm and certain, as she draws you silently inside.

The door shuts softly behind you and this time, she doesn’t let go.

And when her lips finally meet yours, you understand what your heart always knew: it was never just a game. It was a fire and she had been ready to burn with you all along.

Part 5

[devdozes]

♣ Whatever happened to the Hayloft? (pt.1)

wohooo modern au! anyways uh reader is part of kremnoan national agency and epos is the enemy EDIT: PART TWO IS POSTED!!

The world always had a way of discarding those who had completed their given role, and You learned that lesson the hard way.

You weren’t born in Kremnos, but you had carved a space for yourself in its investigation unit. It wasn’t out of loyalty or duty but because Eurypon had given you something—an offer, that too an undeniable one. You hunted the rot lurking in the shadows, the kind of filth that thrived in places where the law looked away. Because the offer was a mutual win, To absolutely destroy Epos.

Your last mission should have been a victory. You eliminated the threat, wiped out the infection before it could spread further. You expected gratitude, recognition—at the very least, acknowledgment that you had done the right thing.

Instead, you were met with silence. Then, whispers. Then, a sudden decision was handed down as if it were carved in stone: your removal from the unit, the same unit to which Eurypon himself added you in. And then, you were removed by your superiors, and that same decision was approved by that bastard Eurypos himself.

They told you it was protocol, that your methods were reckless, that you had overstepped. But you weren’t stupid. The target you eliminated had been a benefactor, slipping money into the right hands to stay untouchable. The same hands that had signed off on your expulsion.

Disgrace. That’s what they called it. An exile disguised as procedure. You weren’t arrested, weren’t silenced permanently—just thrown out like something inconvenient.

Your badge was taken. Your access revoked. The work you dedicated yourself to, gone in an instant.

No goodbyes. No allies. Just you, standing at the threshold of a city that no longer wanted you.

The mission played over and over in your mind. "Observe the enemy's intentions and eliminate them." That had been your directive. You did exactly that.

You spent weeks following him, watching him slip through the cracks of Kremnos’ justice system, paying his way out of every accusation, every crime. You watched him destroy lives, snuffing out the weak like they were nothing more than pawns in his personal game. And yet, no one ever stopped him. No one ever tried. He wasn’t just another criminal—he was protected. A necessary evil, they called him. Essential to the city’s survival.

You knew better.

The night of the mission still clung to you, vivid in every detail. The air had been thick with rain, your coat heavy with moisture as you pressed into the shadows of the alley. The target had been cornered, his options dwindling with every step you took forward.

"You don’t want to do this," he had said, voice shaking but still laced with arrogance. "You think you’re doing something noble? I keep the wheels turning. Without me, this city crumbles."

You hesitated—not out of doubt, but out of anger. Did he truly believe that? That he was untouchable, that he could buy his way out even now? That the rules didn’t apply to him?

Your grip on your weapon had been steady, your mind clear. "Then let it crumble."

A single shot. A clean execution.

The silence that followed had been deafening. The city continued on, indifferent. No sirens, no rush of justice arriving too late. Just the sound of rain washing away the blood.

You had fulfilled your mission. You had done what you were told.

And yet, they cast you aside like you had betrayed them.

Confusion twisted in your gut, warring with the certainty that you had done the right thing. Hadn’t you? Or had you simply played the role of executioner while the real enemies remained seated in their offices, drinking their fine liquor, counting their bloodstained money?

As the weight of their betrayal settled in, there was no regret.

But the anger remained, burning beneath your skin.

You had done the right thing.

Even if no one else would admit it. They were all money-hungry cowards.

"ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME?!". You threw a pillow at the screen with a frustrated groan. The TV show had been a mindless distraction, something to drown out the thoughts clawing at the back of your mind, but now it was just fueling your frustration. The female lead—who had spent the entire season developing chemistry with the actually interesting, funny, and devastatingly handsome second lead—had just thrown it all away for the blandest, most insufferably boring male lead imaginable.

"Oh, sure! Pick the emotionally constipated guy with all the personality of an unseasoned mashed potato! That makes so much sense!" You snatched the remote, furiously hitting the rewind button just to glare at the scene again. "This man wrote you poetry, He made you laugh! Meanwhile, your so-called true love hasn’t smiled once in twelve episodes and the ONLY thing he did was to accept you and give you flowers, which is the bare fucking MINIMUM!"

You slumped back against your pillows, glaring at the ceiling. Maybe it was the betrayal, the unfairness of it all—both in the show and in your own life—that made your blood boil. The second lead had done everything right. He had been there, had supported her, had actually put in the effort. Your fingers curled into the blanket, irritation and something heavier twisting in your gut. The familiar weight of injustice, of being discarded despite doing exactly what was asked of you.

"Ridiculous," you muttered, reaching for the half-empty bag of chips beside you and stuffing a handful into your mouth. "I swear, if they make him attend her wedding in the finale, I’m going to go batshit insane."

And then the finale aired.

The second lead sat in the audience, watching with a wistful smile as the female lead exchanged vows with the brick wall of a main character.

You stared at the screen, jaw tightening. The remote was in your hand, the power button just within reach.

Click.

The TV screen went black.

Without hesitation, you tossed the remote onto the couch, grabbed your bike keys, and swung on your jacket. Enough of this nonsense. You needed something to cool your frustration before you did something drastic—like throwing your TV out the window.

"I am not dealing with this bullshit anymore, isn't tv supposed to calm you down? why is increasing my already high blood pressure"

You quickly stomp out the door, put on your shoes, and run down the stairs quickly, and jump on your bike. from rage or excitement idk

The ice cream shop was nearly empty when you arrived, save for the cashier—a familiar silver-haired young man with a bright grin that immediately screamed trouble. Caelus.

"Well, well, well! If it isn’t my favorite brooding customer!" Caelus leaned dramatically over the counter, resting his chin on his hands. "What’ll it be tonight? Let me guess—something bitter, to match the look on your face?" that zesty bitch

Before you could retort, the door swung open violently, and a blur of motion tackled you from behind. "[Name]!" Stelle practically jumped on you, clinging to your shoulders like an overgrown koala. Then, with a mischievous glint in her eyes, she stuck her tongue out at Caelus. "Beat you to them first!"

Caelus gasped in mock horror. "Betrayal! I was just about to offer them a special ‘overdramatic protagonist’ discount!"

You groaned, trying to pry Stelle off. "I just wanted ice cream, not sibling chaos."

"Too late!" Stelle grinned. "We come as a package deal!" Caelus scoffed, dramatically flipping an imaginary cape over his shoulder. "Excuse you, I am the main event. You’re just the annoying sidekick."

"Excuse you," Stelle shot back, finally releasing you only to jab a finger into Caelus’s chest. "I am the superior sibling here. I was born first."

"You both are twins." You say with the most tired expression on your face while rubbing your temples.

"And yet I’m still more mature," Caelus countered clearly ignoring your words, flashing a smug grin.

"You literally tried to eat a rock yesterday!"

"It looked edible!"

"It was glowing blue!"

You sighed, rubbing your temples as they continued bickering like children fighting over the last cookie. "Can I please just order my ice cream before you two kill each other?"

Caelus instantly straightened, clearing his throat and putting on his best ‘professional’ expression—though the effect was ruined by Stelle making faces behind his back.

"Of course! What can I get you, dear customer?" He batted his long-ass eyelashes exaggeratedly, voice dripping with fake sweetness.

Before you could respond, Stelle leaned in. "They’ll have the saddest, most depressing flavor you’ve got. Something that really screams ‘I got kicked out of a corrupt government unit and now I’m having an existential crisis over fictional characters.’"

Caelus nodded solemnly, stroking his chin. "Ah, yes. That’s a classic order. I recommend the ‘Betrayal Blackberry’ or the ‘Melancholy Mint.’"

"Or," Stelle added, grinning, "we could go for full self-pity mode and get the ‘Cold and Alone Cookie Dough.’"

You glared at both of them. "You two are the absolute worst."

"Yeah, yeah, we know," Caelus said cheerfully. "So, which depressing flavor will it be?"

"...Cold and Alone Cookie Dough."

They high-fived.

"You guys suck," you muttered, grabbing your ice cream and biting the waffle cone and ice cream with unnecessary force.

"Oh, don’t be like that," Stelle cooed, flopping into the chair across from you and stealing a bite of your ice cream before you could stop her.

Caelus leaned on the counter, watching with the grin of someone who lived purely to be a menace. "So, tell us—was it a TV show or real life that caused this spiral into frozen dairy despair?"

You debated throwing your ice cream at his face.

As you stepped out of the shop, the cool night air wrapped around you, the taste of cookie dough and vanilla lingering on your tongue. The ridiculous bickering between Stelle and Caelus still echoed behind you, but for once, instead of irritation, it left a small smile on your face.

"Try not to get arrested!" Caelus called after you with a cheeky wave.

"And don’t die!" Stelle added, throwing in a thumbs-up.

"You guys act like I can’t handle myself," you scoffed, waving lazily over your shoulder as you stepped onto the sidewalk.

The moment lasted exactly three seconds before someone slammed into you.

Your grip on the ice cream loosened, the cone slipping from your fingers in slow motion, the pale brown-dotted biege scoop tumbling unceremoniously onto the pavement.

You barely registered the loss of your dessert because the person who bumped into you—a hooded stranger—was already darting away, their head ducked low. A second later, shouts erupted from down the street.

"Hey! Stop that guy!"

"He stole my bag!"

"Someone grab him!"

You blinked, staring after the retreating figure.

Then, slowly, your gaze dropped to the fallen ice cream, the way it lay pitifully on the ground, melting into a sad puddle.

Your eye twitched.

Alright. The theft? Definitely a problem.

But ruining your ice cream? That was just personal.

"HEY, YOU SON OF A—" You took off in a sprint, instincts kicking in before you even thought about it.

The stranger whipped his head around in alarm, realizing that not only was he being chased—but that his pursuer was very, very angry.

"Oh, you better start running!" you yelled, pushing forward with even more speed.

"WAIT—WHAT—WHY ARE YOU CHASING ME?!" the thief shouted over his shoulder, dodging past pedestrians.

"YOU RUINED MY ICE CREAM, YOU COWARD!"

That seemed to genuinely throw him off. He stumbled slightly before regaining his pace, muttering something under his breath about lunatics.

Behind you, Stelle and Caelus had stepped outside just in time to witness the scene.

Caelus let out a low whistle. "Aaaand there she goes."

Stelle crossed her arms, grinning. "Do we help?"

Caelus hummed, pretending to think. "...Nah. This seems personal."

You took a sharp turn into the alleyway, cutting off the thief’s path before he could escape into the maze of side streets. He skidded to a stop, looking around frantically like a trapped rat.

"Alright, asshole," you panted, rolling your shoulders as you stepped forward. "You made me drop my ice cream. Now I have to kick your ass on principle."

The thief let out a high-pitched laugh, one that sounded more nervous than anything. "L-Let’s not be hasty now!"

You blinked.

That voice.

That infuriatingly familiar, weaselly voice.

Your eyes narrowed as the thief slowly turned around, hands raised in mock surrender.

Purple hair. Cocky grin. Shady coat.

"Sampo?" you deadpanned.

"Ahahaha... surprise?" Sampo Koski grinned, but the sweat dripping down his forehead told you everything.

You stared at him. Then at the stolen bag slung over his shoulder. Then back at him.

"...You stole someone’s bag?"

"Hey, hey, hey, let’s not use such harsh words!" Sampo waved his hands, stepping back. "I prefer ‘borrowing without permission’—"

Your glare intensified.

He coughed. "Temporarily relocating belongings—"

You cracked your knuckles.

"—IT’S A MISUNDERSTANDING, I SWEAR!"

Before he could bolt again, you lunged, grabbing him by the collar and yanking him close. "You owe me ice cream, you rat bastard."

Sampo held up his hands in surrender. "H-How about I get you two? Three! Three ice creams! My treat!"

"You are so lucky I don’t punch you right now," you growled, releasing him with a shove. "Now return the damn bag before I make you eat pavement."

Sampo chuckled nervously. "Right, right—of course! No problem! Consider it already done!"

Just as he said that, the original owner of the bag—an angry looking woman—came sprinting up, flanked by two security officers.

"There he is!" she shouted, pointing directly at Sampo.

He stiffened. "Ah. Well. This is awkward."

You smirked. "Oh no, please go on. I’d love to see how you talk your way out of this one."

Sampo shot you a pleading look before sighing dramatically. "Alright, alright, no need for handcuffs! It’s all a big miscommunication, I assure you!"

As the officers descended on him, you simply stood back, arms crossed, enjoying every second of his downfall.

. . . .

As the security officers reached for Sampo, he shot you one last desperate look—the kind that screamed "Help me, oh great and merciful person whom I may have slightly inconvenienced!"

You rolled your eyes.

"Hey," you called out to the officers, stepping forward. "This dumbass already realized he messed up. No need to rough him up."

The security guards hesitated. The woman, now clearly an elderly lady with sharp eyes, frowned at you.

"Are you vouching for him?" one of the guards asked, skeptical.

"Pfft— No." You snatched the bag from Sampo’s hands before he could protest and turned to the woman. "Here. Safe and sound."

The old lady blinked, surprised. Then, with a warm smile, she took the bag. "Oh, bless your heart, dear!"

Meanwhile, the guards turned their attention to Sampo again.

"Hey, would you look at the time!" Sampo chirped, already inching away. "I must be going—"

You stuck your foot out.

Sampo tripped but recovered quickly, casting you a betrayed look.

You sighed dramatically. "Alright, alright, he’s harmless. Just let him go."

The officers exchanged glances but ultimately relented, grumbling as they backed off. The elderly woman gave you another grateful nod before walking off, leaving you alone with the notorious conman.

Sampo, ever the opportunist, dusted himself off with a wide grin. "Wow! You actually helped me! Didn’t know you cared so much—"

Your fist cracked against his head lightly—a warning tap, really.

"Ow!"

"You owe me ice cream, Koski." You grabbed his collar before he could escape. "And a damn good explanation."

Sampo chuckled nervously. "Ehehe… w-well, you see—"

You dragged him back toward the ice cream shop.

"Talk. Now."

As the bell chimed upon your return, Caelus and Stelle looked up from behind the counter—only to immediately burst into laughter.

Caelus nearly collapsed onto the register, wheezing. "Oh my god."

Stelle clutched her stomach, barely able to breathe. "What— what is that look on your face—?"

Because, standing at the entrance of the shop, you wore the most dangerously peaceful smile imaginable. A smile that promised violence.

And in your grasp, Sampo Koski dangled half-dragged by the collar of his coat, groaning dramatically. "Mercy! Mercy, I say!"

Caelus wiped a tear from his eye. "Did you adopt a stray, [Name]? Or—wait—did the stray adopt you?!"

"Shut up," you said sweetly, before unceremoniously dumping Sampo onto the floor.

"Oof—!" He sprawled out like a ragdoll. "Rude."

You turned to Caelus, still smiling. "Another one of my usual. On him." You jabbed a thumb at Sampo, who gave a weak thumbs-up from the floor.

Stelle snickered. "You got a sugar daddy now?"

"More like a debt-ridden weasel who owes me for ruining my first ice cream." You crossed your arms. "And I will be collecting."

Sampo scrambled up, brushing himself off. "Now, now! Let’s not be hasty—"

Caelus grinned, already scooping your ice cream. "Oh, no. We love hasty."

Stelle smirked. "So, Koski—" She leaned over the counter. "—care to explain what the fuck just happened?"

Sampo let out a nervous chuckle, straightening his coat as he glanced between you, Stelle, and Caelus—all three of you wearing eerily expectant expressions.

"Now, now," he started, raising his hands in a pacifying gesture. "Surely there’s no need for such hostility! Let’s all take a deep breath, relax, and—"

You grabbed a chair and turned it around, sitting on it backward like you were about to interrogate him. "Talk."

Caelus, ever the opportunist, slid a cup of water across the counter like he was in some kind of detective movie. Stelle leaned in closer, grinning.

"Spill."

Sampo sighed dramatically. "Ahh, what a cruel world! A man can’t even do a little bit of freelance item relocation without being hunted down like a criminal—"

"Because you are one?" you deadpanned.

"Details!" He waved you off. "See, my dear friends, it’s all about perspective! To you, I might look like some shady—albeit handsome—fellow running through the streets, but to others, I am simply a humble entrepreneur!"

Caelus snorted. "Humble, my ass."

You tapped your fingers against the chair. "So what, you just happened to rob an old lady in front of a crowd?"

"*Whoa!*Whoa! Let’s not throw around words like ‘rob,’" Sampo said, looking genuinely offended. "She was the one who had something very valuable, and I simply liberated it for a bit! Then I was going to return it—eventually!"

"Eventually my ass," you muttered.

Stelle grinned. "So, what was in the bag, huh? Stacks of cash? A top-secret government file? The legendary lost treasure of—"

Sampo groaned, rubbing his face. "Ugh, it was a bunch of handmade scarves!"

There was silence.

Then Caelus burst out laughing again. Stelle doubled over, wheezing.

You blinked. "Wait, what?"

Sampo slumped over the table. "I thought it was something else!"

You pinched the bridge of your nose. "You—stole scarves? From an old lady? And got chased down the street for it?"

Sampo threw his arms in the air. "I panicked!"

Caelus wiped a tear from his eye, grinning. "Man, you really are the worst at this."

"I’m usually so good at this!" Sampo groaned, before giving you the most pitiful look possible. "You believe me, don’t you?"

You took your freshly made ice cream from Caelus, making a show of enjoying the first bite. Then, without breaking eye contact, you reached out and grabbed Sampo’s wallet right from his coat.

"Hey—!"

You flipped it open, pulled out enough to cover the ice cream, and slammed the cash onto the counter. "Pleasure doing business with you."

Caelus let out an exaggerated "oohhh!" while Stelle outright clapped.

Sampo sighed, defeated. "You wound me, [Name]. Truly."

You smirked. "Next time, watch where you’re running. Or maybe don’t steal from old ladies."

Sampo pouted. "Lesson learned… probably." that fucking whore

With the sweet taste of victory (and ice cream) on your tongue, you leaned back in your chair, savoring every bite while Sampo sulked dramatically across from you. Stelle was still giggling every now and then, and Caelus had taken it upon himself to reenact Sampo’s very ungraceful escape attempt using napkins and straws.

You took another slow, deliberate spoonful, making a show of enjoying it just to rub salt in Sampo’s wounded pride.

"Mmm. So worth the trouble."

Sampo groaned, slumping over the table. "This is cruel and unusual punishment. Watching someone else enjoy what should’ve been mine."

"You paid for this," you reminded him.

"And yet, somehow, I feel robbed," he sighed.

Stelle grinned. "Now you know how that old lady felt."

Sampo shot her a betrayed look, but before he could get another word in, you set your spoon down, stretching with a satisfied sigh. "Alright, I’m heading home before something else drags me into its nonsense."

"Awww," Stelle whined. "You sure? You could stick around and watch Caelus keep clowning on Sampo."

Caelus, who had been dramatically dropping a napkin “thief” off a table ledge, grinned. "I’ve got at least ten more skits in me."

Sampo groaned louder. "You’re all terrible people."

You laughed, standing up. "I’m sure you’ll survive, Sampo. Or not. Either way, not my problem."

With a final wave to the chaotic duo, you exited the shop, stepping into the cool night air. Your bike was parked nearby, and you swung a leg over it with ease, the quiet hum of the streets a welcome change from all the chaos.

For the first time in a while, a genuine smile settled on your face.

As you settled onto your bike, ready to head home, a flicker of movement in your peripheral vision caught your attention.

A hooded figure stood near the alley across the street, leaning casually against the wall as if waiting for something—or someone. The dim glow of a nearby streetlamp barely illuminated his features, but for a split second, you caught a glimpse of something familiar.

Ash-blonde hair with red tips.

Your grip on the handlebars tightened slightly. A strange sense of recognition stirred in your chest, but you pushed it down. You were tired—you’d had enough surprises for one night.

With a shake of your head, you dismissed the thought. Probably just some random guy. Not your business.

You revved your bike, the engine’s low hum filling the silence. The hooded figure didn’t move, didn’t react.

And so, you turned your attention back to the road and rode off into the night, leaving the stranger—and whatever trouble he might bring behind because you had enough for one fucking night

. . . . .

The ride home was uneventful, the cool night air doing little to wash away the lingering irritation from earlier. You parked your bike, stretched out your sore limbs, and stepped inside. The dim glow of your apartment welcomed you, quiet and still—just the way you liked it.

You tossed your jacket onto the couch, grabbed a bottle of water from the fridge, and were about to collapse onto your bed when your phone buzzed.

Unknown Caller.

You stared at the screen, debating whether to pick up. Something about it felt… off.

Against your better judgment, you answered.

A familiar voice crackled through the speaker. "…[Name]?"

You froze.

Aglaea.

It had been months since you last heard her voice. Since she let you walk away without a word. Since she didn’t defend you when you needed her most.

Your grip on the phone tightened. "What do you want?"

There was a pause. A hesitation. Then—

"Eurypon is dead."

The words settled over you like a thick fog. Cold. Heavy.

You blinked once. Then twice.

Dead?

Eurypon—the same bastard who removed you from the unit, who framed you as reckless, who ensured you’d never work in the investigation unit again—was dead?

You weren’t sure how to feel. Shocked? Maybe. But there was no grief. No sadness. Just an empty sort of understanding.

People like Eurypon made enemies. It was only a matter of time.

You exhaled, voice steady, emotionless. "I'm not in the investigation unit anymore, Aglaea. Don’t contact me."

A beat of silence. Then, Aglaea’s voice softened. "I know," she murmured. "I just thought… you should hear it from me. Not the news. Not anyone else."

You didn’t respond.

Another pause. Then, quieter—almost hesitant—she added, "Save my number, [Name]. Even if you don’t want to talk to me. Just… save it."

You sighed, fingers hovering over the screen.

Then, without another word, you declined the call.

But you did save her number.

. . . .

You groaned, throwing yourself onto the couch before grabbing the remote and flicking on the TV. After the chaotic mess of the night, all you wanted was some mindless background noise.

Flipping through the channels, you paused at the news. Maybe they had an update on something actually interesting.

"Breaking News: Former Investigation Unit Director, Eurypon, Found Dead."

Your brows raised slightly. So it was real.

The reporter droned on about the details—Eurypon’s body found in a private residence, a single bullet wound to the head, no signs of forced entry. But what really caught your attention was the next segment.

A figure appeared on the screen, standing at a podium in a sharply pressed uniform, flanked by two other high-ranking officials. His face was one you recognized instantly.

Ash-blonde hair with red tips, slightly messy yet unmistakable. Cold golden eyes staring through the camera with that same unyielding intensity.

Mydei.

Your former teammate.

No. More than that.

Eurypon’s son.

Your lips curled into something between amusement and curiosity. So he was the one stepping into his father’s shoes now?

Then, before you could process anything further—

BZZZT.

Your phone vibrated against your stomach. Another unknown number.

You groaned, throwing a pillow across the room in frustration. "Are you kidding me?"

Swiping the call open, you pressed the phone to your ear. "Whoever this is, I swear—"

"[Name]."

You blinked.

That voice. Low. Steady. Unshaken.

You glanced at the TV again, and there he was—Mydei, standing there like he owned the damn world.

Slowly, you sat up, adjusting your grip on the phone. "You killed Eurypon, didn’t you?"

There was a beat of silence.

Then, calmly, Mydei responded, "Yes."

No hesitation. No guilt. No unnecessary justifications. Just a simple, undeniable confirmation.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head. "Well. Can’t say I’m surprised."

Eurypon was a bastard. A snake who sold out his own people for power. You weren’t about to shed any tears over him.

"That’s not why I’m calling." Mydei’s voice was clipped, professional. "We need you back in the investigation unit. There’s a mission that requires your expertise."

Your amusement faded.

And then you laughed.

Loud. Sharp. Unbelieving.

"You think I’d ever go back to that corrupt mess?" you asked, a grin stretching across your face. "You’re funny, Mydei. I don’t do favors for free, and I especially don’t work with the people who threw me out like trash."

There was silence on the other end.

Then, a sigh.

"I expected you to say that," Mydei admitted, his voice still composed. "But it was worth a try."

"You seriously thought I’d agree?"

"I thought you might consider it."

You scoffed, shaking your head. "Hard pass."

Another pause. Then, softer than before—barely noticeable—he said, "…I see."

You almost laughed again. Even now, he was as restrained as ever.

"Tell you what," you said, stretching lazily against the couch. "How about next time you call, you don’t ask me to clean up the investigation unit’s mess? Try something fun for once."

A quiet breath from the other end, like he wanted to say something but thought better of it.

Then, his voice returned to that same controlled, unreadable tone.

"Just wait till 25th April."

And with that, the call ended.

You exhaled, tossing your phone onto the couch beside you.

So Mydei was pulling the strings now.

And he had no qualms about getting blood on his hands.

You weren’t sure if that was better or worse.

April 25th

Your phone buzzed.

You barely spared it a glance, still sprawled out on your couch, half-asleep from last night’s late ride. The screen flashed with an unknown number again.

A groggy sigh left your lips as you grabbed it. "This better not be another waste of my time."

"[Name]."

You sat up instantly.

That voice—steady, composed, unmistakably Mydei.

"You're calling me again?" you said, rubbing your eyes. "What, another mission offer? I already—"

"Check the news."

You blinked.

Something in his tone made you pause. He sounded… amused? Smug, even.

Your brows furrowed as you reached for the remote. The news channel flickered to life on your TV, and within seconds, you were wide awake.

"Investigation Unit Officials Exposed in Widespread Corruption Scandal—Mass Firings Underway."

Your breath hitched.

The screen displayed a list of names, each one making your pulse quicken.

People you used to work with. The same bastards who threw you under the bus. Who framed you, lied, and made sure you'd never step foot in the unit again.

Now? They were gone.

Some were getting arrested. Others were being dragged out of their offices, their faces pale as reporters bombarded them with questions. Their crimes—bribery, evidence tampering, illegal dealings—were being laid out in broad daylight for everyone to see.

You sat there, stunned.

And then, from the phone pressed against your ear—

A quiet chuckle.

"So?" Mydei drawled, clearly enjoying this moment. "What do you think?"

You let out a slow breath, still processing everything.

"You… really went and did it, huh?"

"You sound surprised."

"That’s because I am." You shook your head, watching as another corrupt official was led out in handcuffs. "I knew you were stepping in, but I didn’t think you’d actually clean house."

A hum from the other end of the line. "I said I would handle it."

Your lips twitched. "Didn’t think you’d be this thorough."

There was a pause, then, with that same unwavering authority, Mydei spoke again.

"Come to the Investigation Unit tomorrow at 7 AM. ASAP."

You stiffened. "Wait—what?"

"You’ll be leading the next mission," he continued, completely ignoring your reaction. "Highest-ranking officer. No one above you. No one to control you. You do things your way this time."

Your heart skipped a beat.

"You’re serious?"

"Have I ever wasted my time with jokes?"

He had a point.

Before you could respond, the line cut off.

You lowered the phone slowly, still staring at the news, but your focus had already shifted.

Tomorrow at 7 AM.

You were back in the unit.

And this time, you were the one in charge.

A quiet chuckle slipped past your lips.

It felt good.

HI GUYS ITS ANTOHER SERIESS and ts tension wohoo!! @leonsnewadventures

PART 2!!

[fearfulfertility]

SURROGATE PROCESSING WORKFLOW

DRC, Facility Operations Command, Compound Oversight Unit

Date: [REDACTED]

Subject: Surrogate Management Protocols

Location: Paternity Compound 131, [REDACTED], Oregon

Objective

This document provides a detailed overview of the surrogate processing workflow employed at Paternity Compound 131. It highlights the efficiency-focused methodologies implemented throughout the process, from intake to post-delivery. Personal letters from Surrogate ID S131-279-P are included, documenting his journey from arrival to delivery to help illustrate the overall operations.

I. Arrival & Intake

Transport

"Dear Dad,

I’m not sure where to start. They brought me here in this big, quiet van, and as soon as we got off, they started running all these tests. They gave me a number and tattooed it on my stomach like livestock. They keep saying I’m doing something important for the greater good, but I'm just confused." - S131-279

Candidates are transported to the facility in climate-controlled vehicles, ensuring they arrive in stable physical condition. They are processed in batches of [REDACTED] at a time for efficiency.

Initial Assessment

Upon arrival, surrogates undergo physical and psychological evaluations to assess readiness for the program. This includes fertility screening and compatibility testing for high-multiparity potential.

Registration

Each surrogate is tattooed with a unique ID number for tracking and monitoring throughout their conscription period, imprinted just above their navel.

Compound ID: The facility they will be housed in for gestation.

Arrival ID: The order number in which they arrived at the facility. 

Fetal Count: A letter to indicate the number of viable fetuses they carry:

A (1) - B (2) - C (3) - D (4) - E (5) - F (6) - G (7) - H (8) - I (9) - J (10) - K (11) - L (12) - M (13) - N (14) - O (15) - P (16) - Q (17) - R (18) - S (19) - T (20) - U (21) - V (22) - W (23) - X (24) - Y (25) - Z (26)  Example: Paternity Compound 127 + 437th Surrogate to Arrive + Carrying Quattuordecuplets (14) = S127-437-N

II. Rest & Preparation

Induction & Crowd Control

"Hey Dad,

Things are getting weirder by the day. Yesterday, they gave me a shot that burned like hell and made me feel woozy. It must have knocked me out cause I woke up, and it was tomorrow morning. I don’t know what happened, but I was so sore. I just want to go home." - S131-279, Arrival Weight 170 lbs

Entry areas are designed to funnel a group of surrogates into a single file line. Short but sweeping corridors are employed so that each candidate is prevented from seeing what lies ahead and concentrates on the individual in front of it.

Hygiene Protocols

Surrogates are directed to communal hygiene zones where they undergo full-body cleansing, enemas, and sterilization procedures.

Hormonal Optimization

Subjects are administered hormonal injections and supplements to ensure optimal uterine receptivity and increase the likelihood of successful embryo implantation.

Tranquilization (Optional)

Depending on the subject’s stress levels, mild to full sedation may be administered to maintain compliance and calm.

Note: [REDACTED]% of surrogates require some form of sedative before insemination.

III. Insemination Process

Surrogates can be assigned one of three insemination methods, depending on operational efficiency, donor availability, and strategic objectives:

"Dad,

I don’t even know who I am anymore. My body feels like it’s not mine. It’s only been a week since I arrived, and my stomach is growing so fast it scares me. I can’t stop eating, and it’s like my hunger gets worse the more I eat, but I can't stop. They keep telling me this is normal, that 16 is a "good number"?! They said it was a badge of honor. Sixteen! I feel like I’m being turned into something I don’t understand, and I can’t stop it." - S131-279-P, Day 6, Weight 192 lbs (+22 lbs)

In Vitro Fertilization (IVF):

Procedure: Embryos fertilized in a laboratory are implanted directly into the surrogate's uterus. 

Benefits: High precision, maximum control over embryo count, and genetic compatibility.

Usage: Preferred for surrogates assigned to carry high-volume fetuses or when multiple donors are involved.

Traditional Method (Sexual Intercourse):

Procedure: Selected donors engage in physical intercourse with surrogates under closely monitored conditions.

Benefits: Natural conception methods reduce laboratory overhead and offer efficient insemination for surrogates with high natural fertility markers.

Usage: Typically used donor compatibility is exceptionally high.

Fluids Infusion (Turkey Baster Method):

Procedure: Donor samples are introduced directly into the surrogate's reproductive tract using a sterile infusion device.

Benefits: Combines simplicity with minimal intervention—a cost and time-effective alternative to IVF and traditional methods.

Usage: Often employed in high-volume batches where rapid insemination is required or transportation to the nearest compound is infeasible.

Post-Procedure Monitoring: Surrogates remain in observation units for [REDACTED] hours to confirm successful implantation and address any immediate complications.

IV. Monitoring & Maintenance

Ward Assignment

"Dad,

I don’t think I can do this anymore. My belly is enormous—I can barely move, and I’m out of breath all the time. They keep saying I’m ‘thriving,’ but how can they call this thriving? I heard one of the staff joking about how I’m ‘one of the biggest ones yet.’ They think it’s funny. I don’t. I can feel them—16 of them—moving inside me, taking over everything I used to be. I’m not me anymore." - S131-279-P, Day 13, Weight 254 lbs (+84 lbs)

Surrogates are transferred to gestational wards, where they will reside for their pregnancies. These wards have medical monitoring stations, communal feeding areas, and resting zones.

Nutrition Protocols

Diets are adjusted to high-calorie "one-size-fits-all" solutions, such as nutrient-dense puddings designed to promote fetal growth while maintaining surrogate docility. Hormonal treatments are incorporated into meals to reduce the need for frequent medical interventions.

Weekly Checkups

Surrogates undergo routine ultrasound exams, weight measurements, and health assessments to ensure all embryos develop within target parameters.

Behavioral Observations

Any signs of distress or resistance are addressed promptly through psychological support or, if necessary, isolation protocols.

V. Delivery Process

"This will probably be my last letter. I don’t think I’ll make it much longer. My body’s breaking under the weight—literally. I'm too big, no one was ever meant to be this big. They’re moving me to the birthing wing tomorrow, and I know what that means. I’m terrified, but I don’t have a choice. I just want you to know I didn’t have a choice." - S131-279-P, Day 28, Weight 490 lbs (+320 lbs)

Pre-Labor Preparation

As surrogates approach full term (29-35 days), they are moved to birthing wings equipped with specialized delivery equipment and staff trained for high-multiparity births. Diets are radically adjusted to promote greater weight gain.

Labor Management & Delivery

Surrogates are monitored continuously, and medical staff is on hand to manage complications. Multiple babies are delivered in succession. This process may last several hours or more, depending on the number of fetuses.

Post-Delivery Processing:

Fetuses are immediately evaluated for health and viability.

Surrogates are provided palliative care as necessary.

VI. Post-Delivery Workflow

"Surrogate S131-279-P demonstrated remarkable endurance and successfully delivered 16 fetuses, average weight 14 lbs, in 30-45 minute intervals, after a 34-hour labor. The surrogate's abdomen showed extreme distension, with clear evidence of significant internal [REDACTED]. Full natural delivery was achieved, but the surrogate succumbed to irreversible [REDACTED] failure minutes after the final baby was delivered." - Dr. [REDACTED], Chief OBGYN, Paternity Compound 131

Vital Cessation Verification

Medical staff confirm the cessation of all vital signs immediately following delivery to ensure compliance with humane protocols. Time and cause of expiration are noted for record-keeping and research purposes.

Surrogate Decommissioning & Disposal

[REDACTED]

Note: As standard protocol, all personal items of Surrogate S131-279-P were recycled following his decommissioning, including the destruction of [REDACTED] paper letters addressed to a Mr. [REDACTED] Collazo.

Surrogate Output Metrics

Each surrogate’s performance is evaluated against pre-delivery projections. The Prenatal Division records key performance indicators for review, including total fetal weight, fetal viability, and gestational efficiency. Personal details related to the surrogate are then purged to save computer storage space and maintain confidentiality.

Key Metrics and Efficiency Goals

Average Per Surrogate: 8–14 Embryos

Delivery Survival Rate (Fetuses): [REDACTED]%

Surrogate Survival Rate: 0%

Cost per Surrogate: $[REDACTED]

This structured process ensures that surrogate output meets national population growth goals while maintaining operational efficiency and cost-effectiveness.

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

Click Here to return to DRC Report Archives

[kiwoa]

The only heartworm allowed in this house is a plush one - after nine months of treatment, Jackie is heartworm-free!

Her journey's been a bit different from the traditional path. For one, she's been on heartworm preventatives for a long time. The problem is that heartworm takes six months to show up on a test. She was taken in by a shelter at two months; we adopted her at seven months. Somewhere in her early puppyhood, an infected mosquito must've gotten her and the worms grew until they could finally be detected after she'd settled into her forever home with us. So takeaway #1 - always test for heartworms, even if they've been on preventatives, especially if there's a gap in their history!

For another thing, we opted to try the Moxi-Doxy protocol, a method less tested than the traditional treatment, but super promising in cases like hers, where the dog is healthy and the disease is young. The problem with Moxi-Doxy is that it takes longer than arsenical injections, so it's not a great pick if the worms are already doing damage or causing symptoms. The advantage, however, is that the restrictions and side effects are WAY fewer!

You start off with a month of Doxycycline, same as with traditional treatments. It kills a symbiotic bacteria in the worms and weakens them. This was actually the hardest part of the treatment for Jackie, as the dosage is high and is given all month, but she only had issues in the last week of it, so we were able to push through. The big difference in treatments comes after that - with Moxi-Doxy, the next (and potentially final) step is application of drops containing Moxidectin as directed for as long as it takes. For us, we put Advantage Multi on Jackie once a month.

Since the worms are being killed so much more slowly than with arsenical injections, the risk of embolism from multiple worms detaching/breaking down at once is considerably lower. We couldn't take her on any super long walks or to dog parks or other places that would raise her heart rate and keep it up for a prolonged period, but she was still allowed normal walks. She still got to play fetch. She could still wander around the house freely and thrash her toys and even have brief stints of zoomies. And there was no pain from injections or deleterious side effects - just some painless drops on her skin once a month.

There's still much to be said for the traditional method. It has a higher success rate (we were always aware that Jackie's treatment could fail and we'd end up having to start the traditional protocol after a year and a half of failed efforts) and it works much faster. I think there's a lot to be said for Moxi-Doxy as well, though, since it's a much more comfortable process. And it's always nice to have options. It's a much newer protocol and I had never heard of it until a vet suggested it could be an option for Jackie, so I figured I'd put this information out there for dog owners who might be similarly unaware. For us, at the very least, Moxi-Doxy worked without side effects and cured our Jackie in less than a year. I think that's worth telling people.

[physalian]

Creating Tragic Backstories Through Agency

This is absolutely a biased-as-hell post and not a rule of thumb for what you should do. This is me taking an opportunity to gush about my favorite method of designing backstories, which happen to end up tragic, and they’re something I’d like to see more of in fiction.

The thing that I want to see more of is, well, “tragedy”. Not necessarily the ‘terrible, awful, no good, very bad time’ aspect, but the ‘doom’ of one’s fate being sealed. Tragedy didn’t always mean a bad thing, just like doom didn’t. They meant an outcome that was inevitable, which usually happens to be a bad one.

So when I’m thinking about what TB I want to give a character, my very first thought is this: What single seemingly small choice did this character make that led them to this moment after snowballing out of control?

I like happenstance backstories as much as the next guy—little Orphan Annie an orphan by circumstance and not her own doing—but what I find equally if not more compelling is the character who is tragic because of their own choices. But instead of that choice killing them, it’s the genesis of the character they come to be.

Once again. This is not a rule. It’s just fascinating.

I wrote a character, princely type, and his tragic backstory contained a lot of awful shit. He was my therapy character and I put him through hell to make myself feel better, hence why that sci-fi WIP all over my posts remains unpublished. Half of his tragedy was out of his control: Mother, the queen, died suspiciously in childbirth with her only heir and his dad, queen consort, both never expected to have to do this without her and hates and blames his son for her death.

But the other half all began with a single choice. I had another character kind of like a warped Aladdin. This kid, his age, played on MC’s desperate need for a friend of any kind. Kid shows up, commits a crime against MC punishable by death, and MC breaks protocol (at like, 7 years old) and very publicly denounces the death sentence of another 7 year old. Kid takes this pardon and absolutely runs with it, manipulating what MC thinks is a genuine friendship into an extremely abusive power play all to get the throne, and MC can’t do shit about it.

The point was that it was MC’s humanity and compassion, and how that was taken advantage of, that was the foundation of his tragedy. This one choice, to spare the other kid’s life because it was the right thing to do, completely ruins MC’s life and snowballs into so many other tragedies as he grows up.

I’m all for the dead parent cliche, don’t get me wrong, but there’s something about a hero grappling with the consequences of their life unraveling because of one seemingly small choice, or a choice with seemingly only one good option. There’s something about a hero knowing that they are on this path because of decisions they made, and having to reckon with asking themselves if they would do it all again if given the chance. There’s just something about a hero blaming themselves for their circumstances, focusing on that one small act, when the big picture really can’t possibly all rest on their shoulders.

This is a very specific personality and backstory and is hardly applicable to every story you could tell, there’s just something about the agency of the tragedy that gets to me.

It doesn’t have to be necessarily big, either. Tragic characters like the divorced dad who’s divorced because he’s the one that cheated. The squad leader who made one bad call and got the rookie killed in action.

Choices that these characters would make, because it’s who they are fundamentally, over and over and over again even knowing what future was in store, whether that’s a selfless trait or a selfish one—the dad who still cheats because he’s got weak willpower, the squad leader who would still put the needs of the many first, the mission first.

This tends to work for characters who’ve had time to grow up and truly marinate in the repercussions of their actions. Kids who blame themselves get told by everyone around them trying to cheer them up that it couldn’t possibly have been their fault. An adult who’s had time to reflect and think and brood has cemented the idea that it’s their fault, in some capacity, and nothing is going to change their mind.

Perfect, poster boy example: Zuko.

Now I can’t speak for him and I don’t think the answer ever came in canon, but he fits that balance of “tragedy by circumstance” vs “tragedy by choice” perfectly.

Zuko’s circumstances being that though he’s the elder child, his sister is the ambitious prodigy and his dad is a power-hungry narcissist, whose machinations lead to Zuko’s mom murdering the current firelord so he can get the throne, which leads to her disappearance, which leads to Zuko having very little support systems, which leads to an incredibly fraught childhood.

Zuko’s choice, though, is the one everyone knows: To stand up for those soldiers at the war meeting, and to not fight his father in the Agni Kai. He probably knew at the Agni Kai that refusing to fight would define the rest of his life, however long it lasted, but I bet you he had no idea what would befall him at that meeting. It’s just who he is as a person, and I think he would do it all again, because to not would be a betrayal of his character.

Aang, too, his impulsive choice to run away during the storm wasn’t done knowing that he’d then survive the air nomad genocide (at least in the original). He was just angry and afraid and wanted some alone time that circumstances demanded came at the absolute worst/best moment possible. Aang would be tragic already being the last of his kind but being forced from the fight, like if he was knocked out or ordered to leave, wouldn’t hit the same. That he did it unknowingly just gives him so much more depth.

—

There is absolutely nothing wrong with TBs that are only tragedy by circumstance and you can get depth from other means. Orphan Annie isn’t any less valid because she had no control over her fate. Dead parents aren’t any less debilitating if they die in a house fire via gas leak, freak accident.

I just think one extra layer of depth and agency can propel a character that much higher.

[tiesthatbind-tf]

You said Sentinel was Optimus’s mentor in your AU? What was that partnership like before Optimus left? How did Sentinel treat him, I mean?

Oh, we're going to have to pull up a chair for this hot dumpster fire.

You get some homework reading beforehand.

Optimus Prime (Omar Parvez) and his parents (Mirza and Ariya) are Kurdish political refugees from Iran who were granted asylum in the UK, and Optimus first crossed paths with Sentinel Prime (Sedgewick Princeton), when Sentinel was a young cop. Mirza was a college professor, Ariya was a journalist, needless to say they had people who wanted them silenced, and at one point of time, Sentinel (back then 27) responded to a home invasion at their apartment and saved Mirza's life. OP and Sentinel spoke back then when Sentinel was attempting to calm him down (he made the emergency call as a terrified seven-year-old) and it was this moment that inspired OP as a child to look into law enforcement as a career option when he grew up.

OP put in the work, made the cut to the military/law class despite hailing from parents in the art/education class, and caught the eye of Sentinel, who had become London Police Commissioner. Sentinel, both impressed by OP's work ethic and getting a bit of an ego boost that OP was inspired by him, decided to take OP under his wing when OP graduated, and began work in the Hackney borough.

At this point, Sentinel and OP's relationship was very good. OP was dutiful, excelled in his tasks and showed a lot of initiative, and he treated OP like a son, even to the point of trying to set OP up on blind dates! But OP would see some subtle warning signs, where Sentinel would compliment him in a way that disparaged his background (think the "you're a credit to your people"/"would you believe the child of mere book keepers could become a warrior" type 'compliments'), and played him up as a model minority to an uncomfortable degree.

The real rift started when OP was made Chief Superintendent of the Dead End as a trial by fire (its two previous Chief Superintendents had quit on the job), where he would oversee enforcement there without Sentinel's input and if it worked out, he would be promoted to deputy commissioner in Scotland Yard. OP strayed away from Sentinel's standard policing protocol for a more holistic/facilitative form of policing that focused more on public welfare than making arrest quotas and punitive action.

OP sees severe issues with the system, Sentinel thinks it's working as intended to 'keep order'; OP begins to see cracks in the Sentinel's pedestal and the callousness behind Sentinel's facade of propriety, Sentinel begins to see OP as not as a student, but as a rival, especially when OP's methods work. Both end up in disagreements and rows so bad that Sentinel would hamstring OP's station funding and send his men down there to police OP, because Sentinel still has authority over OP (thought not enough to strip OP of his position in the Dead End because NOTHING OP is doing is technically wrong, it's simply getting in the way of locking up all these 'undesirables' and investments from gentrifying the place).

And when OP gets in the bad graces of Proteus and several Senate members for being a loudmouthed upstart, Sentinel takes the opportunity to throw OP under the bus, fire him and have him blacklisted from future military/law enforcement positions.

That said, whatever schadenfreude Sentinel felt seeing OP reduced to a dockworker (see where disobeying me gets you), was immediately decked in the face by the realisation that OP is no fool; OP had made connections with Hotspot, Ratchet, and local activists to ensure through a network of initiatives and legalities that Dead End remains cared for and in the hands of its residents, regardless of its superintendent.

Sentinel has never forgotten this and has harbored a deep disdain for OP ever since, a disdain which turns into hate when he finds our years later than OP is one of the two rebel leaders of the workers' revolution clashing heads with his forces.

The point of absolutely no return is when Sentinel has OP's father, his only living parent at that point, arrested and publicly executed for sedition via dissemination of banned literature (there is a bit of a personal slant to this; a part of Sentinel is always angry that OP would never see him as a father figure and despite having the strength and discipline of a warrior, remains that soft-hearted, kindly book keeper at heart) in an attempt to crush OP's morale and draw OP and Megatron out into the open (also, it's an interesting narrative bookend, given that Sentinel had saved Mirza on the job years ago; he sees himself in a position to hold both life and death in his hands) The hatred is mutual after this point, and OP prefers to avoid any discussion of Sentinel to this day.

[anime-simp-0]

when bakugo’s anti-villain s/o and him fight

i got this idea from the opposite version of this i did, bakugo’s anti-hero s/o. it really had me thinking how bakugo would react to someone who fits the anti-villain archtype; someone who has the noble goals but their means of attainment are evil.

well for starters, just like heroes have a ton of different sub-archtypes, so do anti-villains. in the most basic sense, i’m basing mine off of the concept that they have the right end-goal but not the right methods they are going about so i guess you could kinda consider them like mr. ferret boy draco malfoy. he, by nature, is evil. he has toxic traits and is overall a less then decent individual. however, if tiktok has shown anything, it is that people can still obsess over him. (sighs in dracotok)

regardless, in terms of bakubitch’s s/o, i dont think this makes them a bad person. just misguided. stain’s ideology was exposed to them at a vulnerable time and it just stuck and they turned in to a vigilante because no one had validly proven to them a better option. which led to constantly fooling around in the shadows and kicking ass but mainly for the purpose of catching twofaced hero’s that are actually really shady people, so all around a moral goal but not heroic action.

as to how bakugo would react to this, I think that it really depends on what stage Bakugo you are dating. Middle School? High school? Starting Hero? Experienced? And a large part of this differentiation is what he experienced at UA.

In middle school, he thought heroes were the good guys and they always did the right thing and he was going to be the #1. He was gonna be so perfect that they had no choice except to give him the title of perfection.

And then, UA happened. And he experienced the USJ and he saw firsthand what villains are like. Low level thugs, sure. But those villains didn't care if they killed everyone in that building. And then to see a monster so strong it could get hit by All Might at full force and not bat an eye. That's not even mentioning what happened at the summer camp. Not only was he kidnapped but had his life continuously toyed with for hours and the heroes took their sweet ass time to save him. All because they wanted to follow protocol, and he still managed to get away in the end. I don't think the protocol issues get any better with time either.

I think the older he gets, the more they piss him off. Because he's seen more. he's seen the damage wasting time can do. and i guarantee you there was a decision he makes in the future that costs someone their life because he decided to follow protocol and he never lets himself forget it. because that blood isn't on the commission's hands. it's on his. he was the one that made the call to listen to what the high and might's decided.

The experience also changes his definition of right and wrong. He starts to see everything through a different lens when it comes to why villains do what they do. Are they stealing from places because it's fun or the way they survive? Are they selling drugs because it's their hustle or because it's the only way they can provide. He also starts to see heroes in a different light as well. Are they saving people because they want to keep the city safe or because of publicity? Do they actually care about protecting individuals or is it about the money? And then you have the antivillains and antiheroes and all he can think is about the person who lost their life because he decided to follow the rules. But antiheroes and antivillains and vigilantes don't care about that kinda stuff. They don't have to follow the rules that they didn't sign up for. They don't have to go through the chain of command or rules and regulations. They have the freedom to do the right thing with no consequences ( unless they get caught that is ).

Truly though, I don't think you were aware Bakugo was a hero when you first started dating him, just like I don't think he was aware that you were a antivillain/vigilante. but i could totally see you both finding out because you were running from heroes after some shit and he managed to catch you and you both had a moment where you recognized each other and he couldn’t let you get caught so he let you go and stalled to buy you time. which, yea, lead to a pretty interesting fight. but you managed to talk and make it work. he made you promise to stop fucking around as long as he followed up on his end about taking care of the shitty heroes so you didn’t have to. having said that, i think that he also is still very strong in his beliefs that heroes are good. sure not all of them, but enough where being completely against heroes annoys the living shit out of him. so i think that many arguments would stem from you not liking some of the heroes he works with. whether that’s you doing the signature smart ass lines that make them uncomfortable or intentionally making it known you don’t like them.

hence why it was currently 1:32 in the morning and instead of being in bed with the hot headed prick you call your boyfriend, you were on the couch.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~ ~

the heated words from earlier still ring in your ears as you lay on the couch, looking out of the window and onto the city that lay below, glistening and active even at this time of night. a thin blanket was wrapped around your legs as bakugos shirt that was a few sizes too big left your legs exposed to the cold air in his apartment. you would have left after everything that was said but he had picked you up from your apartment and brought you to his earlier that day so now you were stranded and far too stubborn to ask for help from your friends, knowing they would want details you weren’t comfortable disclosing yet. instead, you decided to sleep on the couch and calm yourself by staring into the glass pane.

the details of your fight were still cloudy in your mind, but one thing was for sure. you both were not on good terms. after you made a backhanded joke about one of the heroes he had become friendly with, it was all over. it started with just about the one guy, then it became how you never liked anyone from his job, then it turned into you hating everything heroes and then, finally, bakugo said the thing that really set you off. “if you hate heroes so much, then do you even give a shit about me? if all heroes are so damn bad!” the things that came out of your mouth next were a mix of rapid fire insults and gabs at him, turning into a full out war of verbal assaults over something as simple as you not likely one of his work buddies.

it made you so angry, it almost made you cry. not because you cared. what? no! of course not! i mean, why would you, right? it’s not like the most important person in your life insulted you and one of the only things you truly believe in before having the audacity to ask if you even loved him-… oh wait… no. no, yea that is what made you cry. you sighed and rubbed your eyes, wiping away the tears before they had a chance to fall. you were angry at yourself. if only you hadn’t said anything. if only you didn’t snap back at him. if only you never said you didn’t like his new work partner. if only-

the sound of the bedroom door opening cause your attention before a bakugo, and frankly a quite grumpy and agitated bakugo at that, stepped out. but the sour expression faded off his face when he saw the tear that you hadn’t managed to wipe away.

“what do you want” you muttered before turning back towards the window and, as subtly as you could, wiping away the dampness from your cheek.

he went to speak multiple times before pausing with a slight growl and shuffling towards you. his sweats hung low on his waist and his hands were bunched up in his pockets as he flexed them, standing next to you on the couch.

“look…” he sighed. this kinda thing was never easy for him. he spent so much time condensing his feelings, being able to openly talk about them was weird on so many level that even after a year and a half of you two dating it still made him feel weird. “i.. shouldn’t have used your stuff against you… what you believe and support is what you do and… i can’t control that or change it. it’s just… i was pissed and wasn’t thinking straight… and i know that’s not a good enough reason to hurt you, i’m not saying it is i just…” he sighed again before taking a hand out from his pocket and rubbing his face “i know you love me, okay? i know that. you prove it everyday you deal with my hero shit or help with my cuts and scraps after a bad day or even just, fuck, staying. you didn’t leave. and i love you for that, okay? i do. i fucking love you with everything i have.”

your tempted to turn to look at him, to break and let a tear fall while you sit there but you don’t. he groans softly before taking his hand and lightly pressing his fingertips to your chin and turning your face towards him. “i’m sorry baby… i mean it. im sorry” he leans down and softly kisses your head before pulling away.

“don’t fucking do it again” is all you can manage before resting your head against him as his arms wrap around you.

“trust me, i don’t plan on it”

“i mean it katsuki” your voice was cold and sent a chill straight to his spine. “don’t question my love again. and don’t use my opinions against me. i love you enough to be with you even though you’re a hero but i love myself enough to walk away if I need to.” you paused and look up at him “don’t put me in a position where i have to be the bad guy. we both know i play the part too well.”

he nodded solemnly before taking a deep breathe. out of everything you had said to him in the last couple hours, that he knew was true. you were always labeled as a villain. not only by your peers but you family as well. when you manifested your quirk and it was far more powerful then anyone else in your family trees, they immediately wanted you to be a hero. to make money for them and be popular. and the second you said no, they turned on you so fast it gave you whiplash. you were so used to being put in positions where you had no choice but to be the bad guy. to do the non glamorous or even cruel thing to survive. he had become your safe space, but even he wasn’t foolish enough to believe you couldn’t live without him. hell, it was the other way around.

he had been laying in bed since you had had your fight, tossing and turning in the cold sheets and reaching for a body that wasn’t there, searching for warmth that was on a couch instead of wrapped in silk with him. he had tried to fight himself on it for hours now. but as much pride as he had, his ego crumbles before you. you mattered more than that to him. you mattered more then being right or proving a point. he needed you. you had become such an important part of him that the idea of you being gone made his heart stop. he was nauseous at the thought of opening the bedroom door and finding your things missing and shoes no longer by the door.

but right now with you in his arms, all he wanted to do was hold you. not for another minute or another hour. forever. he never wanted to breathe without you in his arms. he didn’t want to know what it felt like for you to exist without him. so he looked down at you slowly, his thumb rubbing back and forth against your skin as he held you against him. “I know…” he rested his head against yours, “i know.”

[nyssasatelier]

OC COMMISSIONS OPEN :

Emergency commissions/Limited time offer!

I am offering two options:

Option no. 1) A fully rendered full body Illustration of you OC with minimal background.

Set cost : 25€

Or

Option no. 2) An OC "about me" page/character profile that includes 1/3 body Illustration of your OC along with whatever information you choose to share about them.

Set cost : 15€

What I will draw :

Humans

Humans with minimal animal or monster traits

Humanoid fantasy races like Elves, Thieflings etc

Sonic OC's

What I won't draw :

Anthropomorphic animals/ furries (No offense, I'm just not very good at it. Maybe in the future.)

Anything I'm not comfortable with.

NSFW

What I will need from you :

1-3 Reference pictures of your OC if you don't have any you can use https://Picrew.me to make some!

And if you choose the character profile i will need some information about your OC, not a ton but enough to fill their page and customize it fittingly.

Payment method :

Currently I only take Paypal. (this is non negotiable)

To contact me to commission me just DM me! 🎨🖌️

My terms and conditions:

Disclaimer : My prices are cheap so I will only offer a refund if there's a problem on my end and I can't finish a comission. No refunds because someone didn't like a drawing or changed their mind after I'm already done!

I expect the money to be paid in full after I've sent you my first bare bones (watermarked) sketch. If the money isn't send I simply wont finish the drawing and move on to the next comission. When I've sent you the sketch the customer is allowed to suggest a couple of changes. But no more afterwards.

I explicitly forbid the use of my work for AI or NFT purposes!

If you post my art anywhere or use it online to promote something or anything of that sort I'd like to be credited. I'm also NOT okay with my signature being removed!

What you do with it privately however is up to you! No rules there, print it out cut it up whatever you like :D

[By commissioning me you accept the terms and conditions of my comission protocol and the responsibility of not leaking my private information after the transaction.]

[mightyflamethrower]

The diversity, equity, and inclusion project, often seen as a major element of the so-called “woke” creed along with green fanaticism, keeps popping up as a possible subtext in a variety of recent tragedies.

In the case of the Los Angeles fires, Mayor Karen Bass, who cut the fire department budget, was warned of the mounting fire dangers of the Santa Anna winds and parched brush on surrounding hillsides. No matter—she junketed in Uganda. When furor followed, on cue, her defenders decried a racialist attack on “a black woman.”

Her possible stand-in deputy mayor for “security” was under suspension for allegations that he called in a bomb threat to the Los Angeles city council—a factor mysteriously forgotten.

The fire chief previously was on record mostly for highlighting her DEI agendas rather than emphasizing traditional fire department criteria like response time or keeping fire vehicles running and out of the shop.

One of her deputies had boasted that in emergencies, citizens appreciated most of all that arriving first responders looked like them. (But most people in need worry only whether the first responders seem to know what they are doing.) She further snarked that if women allegedly were not physically able to carry out a man in times of danger, then it was the man’s fault for being in the wrong place.

The Los Angeles water and power czar—culpable for a needlessly dry reservoir that could have provided 117 million gallons to help save Pacific Palisades—was once touted primarily as the first Latina to run such a vital agency. But did that fact matter much to the 18 million people whose very survival depended on deliverable water in the otherwise desert tinderbox of greater Los Angeles?

In all these cases, the point is not necessarily whether the key players who might have prevented the destruction of some 25,000 acres of Los Angeles were selected—or exempted—on the basis of their race, gender, or sexual orientation.

Rather the worry is that in all these cases, those with responsibility for keeping Los Angeles viable, themselves eagerly self-identified first by their race, gender, or sexual orientation—as if this fact alone was synonymous with competence and deference.

In fact, racial or sex identity has nothing to do with whether a water and power director grasped the dangers of a bone-dry but vital reservoir; whether the fire department must know how many fire hydrants remain in working order; or whether a mayor understood that in times of existential danger she must stay on the job and not fly on an optional junket to Africa.

As of yet, we have no idea exactly all the mishaps that caused a horrific air crash at Reagan Airport in Washington. The only clear consensus that has emerged is that the horrific deaths could have been easily preventable—but were not because, in perfect storm fashion, there were multiple system failures. In that sense, both the Los Angeles and Washington, DC, disasters are alike.

When a military helicopter crashes into a passenger jet in Washington, DC, airspace—an area that has not seen such a disaster for 43 years—the likely cause is either wrongly altered protocols or clear human error, or both.

So, it is vital to discover what the causes of the disaster were to prevent such a recurrence. As in the Los Angeles cataclysm, the role of DEI—the method of hiring regulatory agency administrators, air traffic controllers, or pilots on bases other than meritocracy—becomes a legitimate inquiry.

To dispel such worries, authorities must disclose all the facts as they do when there are no controversies over DEI. Yet we never learned the name of the Capitol police officer who fatally shot unarmed Ashli Babbitt for months, nor received evidence of his spotty service record. The same initial hesitation in releasing information marked news about the ship that hit the Francis Scott Bridge near Baltimore and why traffic barriers were not up in the French Quarter before the recent terrorist attack in New Orleans.

In the Washington, DC, crash, two questions arise about the conduct of pilots, air traffic controllers, and the administrators responsible for hiring, staffing, and evaluating such employees.

The first issue is whether hiring, retention, and promotion in the airline industry or the military is not fully meritocratic.

That is, were personnel hired on the basis of their exhibited superior education, practical experience, and superb scores on relevant examinations in matters relating to air travel? Or were they instead passed over because of their race, gender, or sexual orientation?

Was the shortage of controllers a direct result not of an unqualified pool of applicants but rather because of racial restrictions place upon it to reduce its size?

Second, were the promoters of DEI confident that they could argue that “diversity, equity, and inclusion” were as important criteria for the operation of a complex aircraft system as the past traditional criteria that had qualified air traffic controllers, pilots, and administrators?

Not only did DEI considerations often supersede past traditional meritocratic requirements for employment, but DEI champions had also argued that “diversity” was either as important to, or more important than, traditional hiring and retention evaluations.

The answers to these first two questions make it incumbent to ask further whether DEI played a role in the Washington, D.C., crash, similar to how it may have in the Los Angeles wildfires.

It is not racist, sexist, or homophobic to ask such legitimate questions, especially because advocates themselves so often give more attention and emphasis to their race, gender, and sexual orientation than their assumed impressive expertise, proven experience, and superior education. In other words, had one’s race, sex, or orientation been incidental to employment rather than essential, such questions from the public might never have arisen.

Finally, what are the problems with DEI that have not just lost its support but put fear into the public that, like the Russian commissar system of old, it has the potential to undermine the very sinews of a sophisticated, complex society?

DEI is an ideology or a protocol that supersedes disinterred evaluation. In that regard, ironically, it is akin to the era of Jim Crow, when talented individuals were irrationally barred from consideration due to their mere skin color. Like any system that prioritizes identity over merit—whether Marist-Leninist credentials in the old Soviet Union or tribal bias in the contemporary Middle East—a complex society that embraces tribalism inevitably begins to become dysfunctional.

DEI does not end at hiring. Rather, once a candidate senses he is employed on the basis of his race, sex, or sexual orientation, then it is natural he must assume such preferences are tenured throughout his career. Thus, he will always be judged by the same criterion that led to his hiring. In other words, DEI is a lifetime contractual agreement, an insurance policy of sorts once DEI credentials are established as preeminent over all others.

The advocates of DEI rarely confess that meritocratic criteria have been superseded by considerations of diversity, equity, and inclusion. Instead, to the degree that they claim such criteria are not at odds with meritocracy, they argue that the methods of assessing talent and performance are themselves flawed. Tests then are unsound and systemically biased and therefore largely irrelevant. Few DEI advocates make the argument that diversity is so important that it justifies lowering the traditional standards of competence.

Once DEI tribal protocols are established, they are calcified and unchanged. That is when supposed DEI demographics are overrepresented in particular fields such as the postal service or professional sports, then such “disproportionality” is justified on “reparatory” grounds or ironically on merit. If other non-DEI groups, by DEI’s own standards, are deprived of “equity” and “inclusion” or “underrepresented,” it is irrelevant. DEI is, again, a lifetime concession, regardless of changes in status, income, or privilege. An Oprah Winfrey or a Barack Obama—two of the most privileged people on the planet—by virtue of their race, at least as it is defined in the Western world—are permanently deserving of deference.

DEI is also ossified in the sense that it makes no allowance for class. Asian Americans, when convenient, can be counted as DEI hires even though, in terms of per capita income, most Asian groups do better than so-called whites. Under DEI, the children of elites like Barack Obama or Hakim Jeffries will always be in need of reparatory consideration but not so the children of those in East Palestine, Ohio.

Because DEI is an ideology, a faith-based creed, it does not rely on logic and is thus exempt from charges of irrationality, inconsistency, and hypocrisy. The belief system feels no obligation to defend itself from rational arguments. For example, are not racially separate graduations or safe spaces contrary to the corpus of civil rights legislation of the 1960s? There is no such thing as DEI irony: the system contrived to supposedly remedy the de jure racism of some 60-70 years ago itself hinges on de jure racial fixations as the remedy—now, tomorrow, forever.

As in all monolithic dogmas such as Sovietism or Maoism, skeptics, critics, and apostates cannot be tolerated. So, in the case of DEI, logical criticism is preemptively aborted by boilerplate charges of racism, sexism, and homophobia. And the mere accusation is synonymous with conviction, thereby establishing DEI deterrence, under which no one dares to risk cancellation, de-platforming, ostracism, or career suicide by questioning the faith.

DEI is also incoherent. It is essentially a reversion to tribalism in which solidarity is predicated on shared race, sex, or sexual orientation, not through individual background, particular economic status, or one’s unique character. No DEI czar knows why in the pre-Obama era, East Asians did not qualify for DEI status, though they seem to now, or when and how the transgendered were suddenly not statistically still traditionally .01 percent of the population but, in some campus surveys, magically became 10-20 percent of polled undergraduates. No one understands what percentage of one’s DNA qualifies for DEI status, only that any system of the past that fixated on ascertaining racial essentialism, such as the one-drop rule of the old South or the multiplicity of racial categories in the former South Africa, or the yellow-star evil of the Third Reich, largely imploded, in part by the weight of its own absurd amorality.

DEI never explains the exact individual bereavement that justifies preferentiality. All claims are instead collective. And they are encased in the amber of slavery, Jim Crow, or homophobia or sexism of decades past. Social progress does not exist; the malady is eternal. The candidate for DEI consideration never must ascertain how, when, or where he was subject to serious discrimination or bias. And that may explain all the needed prefix adjectives that have sprouted up to prove these -isms and -ologies exist when they otherwise cannot be detected, such as “systemic,” “implicit,” “insidious,” or “structural” racism rather than just “racism.”

DEI never envisions its demise or what follows from it, much less whether there are superior ways to achieve equality of opportunity rather than mandated results. The beneficiaries of DEI seldom ponder its efficacy, much less whether resources would be better allotted to K-12 education during the critical years of development. And they certainly show little concern about those often poorer and more underprivileged who lack the prescribed race, gender, or orientation for special DEI considerations.

In sum, because of these inconsistencies, Donald Trump may well be able to end DEI with a wave of an executive order—simply because its foundations were always built of sand and thus any bold push would knock over the entire shaky edifice.

[rideboomindia]

What are the differences between RideBoom and Indrive in terms of pricing, quality of service, and features offered for corporate clients?

RideBoom and InDriver (formerly known as InDrive) are both ride-sharing platforms that offer transportation services to customers. While they have similarities in terms of their business models, there are some differences between them in terms of pricing, quality of service, and features offered for corporate clients.

Pricing:

RideBoom: RideBoom offers competitive pricing for its ride-sharing services. The fares are determined based on factors such as distance traveled, time taken, and demand-supply dynamics. They also provide various payment options, including cashless transactions through digital wallets and electronic payment methods [2].

InDriver: InDriver stands out by allowing passengers to negotiate fares directly with drivers. This unique feature gives passengers more control over the pricing and ensures transparency and fairness in determining the ride cost [3].

Quality of Service:

RideBoom: RideBoom is committed to providing reliable, convenient, and affordable transportation solutions. They prioritize safety by implementing robust safety protocols and technologies, including stringent driver screening processes, real-time trip monitoring, and emergency assistance features within the app. They also focus on delivering a personalized customer experience by leveraging advanced data analytics and machine learning technologies [2].

InDriver: InDriver emphasizes community involvement and aims to create a sense of trust and reliability. They allow users to see mutual friends or contacts they have in common with drivers, enhancing safety and accountability. InDriver also provides driver profiles with ratings, vehicle details, and reviews, allowing passengers to choose their preferred driver based on these factors [3].

Features for Corporate Clients:

RideBoom: It is unclear from the available search results whether RideBoom specifically offers features tailored for corporate clients. However, as a leading ride-sharing company, they may have partnerships or programs in place to cater to the transportation needs of corporate clients. Further research or contacting RideBoom directly would provide more information on this aspect.

InDriver: There is no specific information available regarding features offered by InDriver for corporate clients in the search results. It is recommended to conduct further research or reach out to InDriver directly for more details on their offerings for corporate clients.

[yagimorten]

Crypto Theft Nightmare: How Astraweb Recovered $150,000 Lost to Hackers

When David Robinson., a 58-year-old retired software consultant from Denver, Colorado, transferred his entire retirement savings $150,000 into a cryptocurrency portfolio, he believed he was securing his financial future. Instead, he walked into a digital minefield. In a single night, everything he had worked for was stolen by anonymous hackers. It was the kind of nightmare many investors fear but few believe could happen to them.

“I thought I had done everything right,” David said. “I had cold storage, I used two-factor authentication, and I only traded on what were considered reputable exchanges. But somehow, someone got in.”

The breach wasn’t just technical it was deeply personal. Decades of disciplined saving, investing, and planning had been wiped away with a few keystrokes. And in the opaque world of blockchain anonymity, there seemed to be little recourse.

A New Kind of Crime, an Old System Ill-Equipped David’s case is not isolated. According to recent figures from the Federal Trade Commission, over $1.4 billion in cryptocurrency was reported stolen in the U.S. last year alone. What’s more chilling is the vast majority of these crimes go unresolved. Law enforcement agencies, though increasingly aware of crypto fraud, are often hampered by jurisdictional boundaries, limited training in blockchain forensics, and the sheer complexity of digital asset recovery.

David contacted local police, the FBI’s Internet Crime Complaint Center (IC3), and even attempted to escalate the issue through the exchange’s customer service channels. All efforts ended in frustration. “Everyone was sympathetic,” he recalled, “but no one could help. They didn’t have the tools. I felt like I was shouting into the void.”

That void, however, was about to echo back.

Astraweb: The Digital Recovery Force Behind the ScenesWith few options left, David turned to a name he had seen mentioned in niche online forums and cybersecurity discussion threads: Astraweb. A private digital asset recovery agency, Astraweb has earned a quiet but powerful reputation for solving complex crypto theft cases especially those deemed too advanced or impossible by other channels.David sent a tentative email to Astraweb@cyberdude.com, not expecting much. Within 12 hours, he received a reply. “From the first message,” he says, “I could tell they were different. They didn’t just want transaction IDs. They asked smart, precise questions. They were calm, confident, and, most importantly, they listened.”Astraweb’s team began work immediately.Digital Surveillance Meets Blockchain ForensicsWhile the average consumer may understand Bitcoin or Ethereum as abstract tokens, Astraweb views the blockchain as a massive, living map of transactions. Every move a stolen coin makes leaves a trace however faint.

Using a proprietary method called wallet triangulation, Astraweb identified the exit points the thief had used to shuffle and launder the funds. These techniques involve advanced blockchain analytics, surveillance of darknet exchange patterns, and metadata correlation to monitor crypto mixers and swap protocols often used to obscure fund movements.

According to sources familiar with Astraweb’s methods, their teams blend cybersecurity expertise with behavioral analytics to predict a thief’s next move. “It’s part code, part cat-and-mouse,” one expert commented. “But when you understand the flow of crypto like a language, the signals start to emerge.”

In David’s case, Astraweb tracked the funds as they moved through a network of wallets, some automated, others human-controlled, eventually leading to a decentralized exchange platform that allowed partial recovery. In collaboration with international legal intermediaries and with careful timing, Astraweb executed a legal intercept of the funds as they entered a liquidity pool.

The Outcome: Full Recovery, Real Relief Just 48 hours after their initial contact, Astraweb notified David that the entire $150,000 had been recovered and would be transferred back to his newly secured wallet.

Reach out to them Now If you have Related Issues Like This:

AstraWeb@cyberdude.com

[applythaivisa]

Marriage Visa in Thailand

The Thailand Marriage Visa is formally designated as a Non-Immigrant O Visa (Category "O") based on marriage to a Thai national. Governed by Immigration Act B.E. 2522 (1979)��and Ministerial Regulation No. 35 (B.E. 2562), this visa category permits annual extensions of stay when specific conditions are met.

Key Distinctions:

Initial Visa: 90-day entry (obtainable at embassies abroad or via conversion in Thailand)

Extension Basis: Annual renewal under Clause 2.18 of Immigration Bureau regulations

Not a Work Permit: Separate application required for employment authorization

2. Financial Requirements: Beyond the Basics

A. Capital Deposit Method (Most Common)

THB 400,000 in a Thai personal account

Seasoning Period:

First application: 2 months prior

Subsequent renewals: 3 months prior and continuous maintenance

Account Type Restrictions:

Must be personal savings account (not fixed deposit)

Joint accounts may be accepted at some offices (but risky)

B. Monthly Income Alternative

THB 40,000/month provable income

Verification Methods:

Foreign Income: Embassy letter (US/UK/EU) or 12-month Thai bank transfers

Thai Income: Tax receipts (Por Ngor Dor 91) + company documents

Combined Income: Spouse's income can contribute with marriage proof

Pro Tip: Chiang Mai Immigration notoriously rejects embassy letters without supporting bank transfers - maintain both.

3. Document Preparation: Hidden Requirements

Mandatory Documentation:

Marriage Evidence:

Kor Ror 2 (Thai marriage certificate)

Kor Ror 3 (amendment record, if applicable)

Photos: 5-10 prints showing cohabitation (dated across seasons)

Residence Proof:

Tabien Baan (Blue House Book) or rental contract + owner's documents

Utility Bills: At least 2 different services in both names

Financial Proof:

Bank Book: All pages photocopied (showing seasoning)

Bank Letter: Issued within 24 hours of application

Provincial Variations:

Bangkok (CW): Requires TM30 filing receipt

Phuket: Demands map to residence

Udon Thani: Home visit standard procedure

4. Application Process: Step-by-Step Protocol

A. Initial Visa Acquisition

Option 1: Apply at Thai Embassy Abroad

Savannakhet (Laos) requires least documentation

Penang (Malaysia) demands financial proof upfront

Option 2: Convert from Tourist Visa

Must have 15+ days remaining on current permit

Requires additional TM86 form

B. Annual Extension Process

30-Day Pre-Application:

Verify bank balance seasoning

Schedule appointment (online for Bangkok)

Interview Day:

Couple interrogated separately (common questions: spouse's birthday, wedding date)

Document submission before noon

Under Consideration Period:

30-day stamp issued

Return for final approval stamp

Critical Note: Some offices (e.g., Jomtien) now require biometric fingerprinting.

5. Work Rights & Business Limitations

Employment Authorization:

Work Permit Possible: But employer must handle application

Restrictions:

Cannot work in prohibited occupations (massage, agriculture)

Must meet salary thresholds for nationality

Business Ownership Options:

Thai-Limited Company:

Can own 49% as foreigner

Marriage visa doesn't increase ownership rights

Nominee Structure Warning:

Using spouse as majority owner risks FBA violation

Must prove spouse's independent financial capacity

6. Advanced Strategies & Loopholes

A. The "Income Combination" Tactic

Example: THB 20K pension + THB 20K spouse's income

Requires:

Spouse's tax records

Affidavit of income contribution

B. Multi-Year Planning for PR

Year 3: Can apply for Permanent Residency

Requires THB 30K+/month provable income

Thai language test (basic conversation)

Year 5: Citizenship eligibility begins

C. Avoiding the "Seasoning Trap"

Strategy: Maintain THB 400K year-round

Alternative: Use fixed account with automatic renewal

7. Common Rejection Reasons & Appeals

Top Denial Causes:

Bank Balance Dips:

Even THB 399,999 = automatic rejection

Solution: Maintain THB 410K buffer

Document Discrepancies:

Mismatched addresses

Outdated tabien baan copies

Suspected Sham Marriage:

No children + large age gap = red flag

Counter with: Joint leases, family photos, shared assets

Appeal Process:

30-Day Appeal Window

Requires "new evidence"

Best handled by lawyer

8. Expert Recommendations

For New Applicants:

Start financial seasoning 6 months early

Create document checklist for your specific office

Conduct mock interview with spouse

For Renewals:

Maintain separate visa account

Document 5+ joint activities annually

Pre-apply 45 days early for buffer

For High-Net-Worth Couples:

Consider combining with investment visa

Structure assets to qualify for O-A Long Stay

9. Future Outlook & Policy Trends

Digital Verification: Increasing use of blockchain marriage records

Stricter Scrutiny: More home visits in tourist areas

Financial Thresholds: Likely to increase post-2025

Final Note: Always cross-verify requirements at your local office - immigration practices vary significantly by province. For complex cases (previous overstays, divorce history), retain specialized counsel before application.

[promodispenser]

Leveraging XML Data Interface for IPTV EPG

This blog explores the significance of optimizing the XML Data Interface and XMLTV schedule EPG for IPTV. It emphasizes the importance of EPG in IPTV, preparation steps, installation, configuration, file updates, customization, error handling, and advanced tips.

The focus is on enhancing user experience, content delivery, and securing IPTV setups. The comprehensive guide aims to empower IPTV providers and tech enthusiasts to leverage the full potential of XMLTV and EPG technologies.

1. Overview of the Context:

The context focuses on the significance of optimizing the XML Data Interface and leveraging the latest XMLTV schedule EPG (Electronic Program Guide) for IPTV (Internet Protocol Television) providers. L&E Solutions emphasizes the importance of enhancing user experience and content delivery by effectively managing and distributing EPG information.

This guide delves into detailed steps on installing and configuring XMLTV to work with IPTV, automating XMLTV file updates, customizing EPG data, resolving common errors, and deploying advanced tips and tricks to maximize the utility of the system.

2. Key Themes and Details:

The Importance of EPG in IPTV: The EPG plays a vital role in enhancing viewer experience by providing a comprehensive overview of available content and facilitating easy navigation through channels and programs. It allows users to plan their viewing by showing detailed schedules of upcoming shows, episode descriptions, and broadcasting times.

Preparation: Gathering Necessary Resources: The article highlights the importance of gathering required software and hardware, such as XMLTV software, EPG management tools, reliable computer, internet connection, and additional utilities to ensure smooth setup and operation of XMLTV for IPTV.

Installing XMLTV: Detailed step-by-step instructions are provided for installing XMLTV on different operating systems, including Windows, Mac OS X, and Linux (Debian-based systems), ensuring efficient management and utilization of TV listings for IPTV setups.

Configuring XMLTV to Work with IPTV: The article emphasizes the correct configuration of M3U links and EPG URLs to seamlessly integrate XMLTV with IPTV systems, providing accurate and timely broadcasting information.

3. Customization and Automation:

Automating XMLTV File Updates: The importance of automating XMLTV file updates for maintaining an updated EPG is highlighted, with detailed instructions on using cron jobs and scheduled tasks.

Customizing Your EPG Data: The article explores advanced XMLTV configuration options and leveraging third-party services for enhanced EPG data to improve the viewer's experience.

Handling and Resolving Errors: Common issues related to XMLTV and IPTV systems are discussed, along with their solutions, and methods for debugging XMLTV output are outlined.

Advanced Tips and Tricks: The article provides advanced tips and tricks for optimizing EPG performance and securing IPTV setups, such as leveraging caching mechanisms, utilizing efficient data parsing tools, and securing authentication methods.

The conclusion emphasizes the pivotal enhancement of IPTV services through the synergy between the XML Data Interface and XMLTV Guide EPG, offering a robust framework for delivering engaging and easily accessible content. It also encourages continual enrichment of knowledge and utilization of innovative tools to stay at the forefront of IPTV technology.

3. Language and Structure:

The article is written in English and follows a structured approach, providing detailed explanations, step-by-step instructions, and actionable insights to guide IPTV providers, developers, and tech enthusiasts in leveraging the full potential of XMLTV and EPG technologies.

The conclusion emphasizes the pivotal role of the XML Data Interface and XMLTV Guide EPG in enhancing IPTV services to find more information and innovative tools. It serves as a call to action for IPTV providers, developers, and enthusiasts to explore the sophisticated capabilities of XMLTV and EPG technologies for delivering unparalleled content viewing experiences.

[powdercoatingmetal]

Powder Coating Metal: The Ultimate Guide to Superior Metal Finishing Solutions

Powder coating metal has revolutionised the way industries approach surface finishing, offering unparalleled durability and aesthetic appeal that traditional liquid paints simply cannot match. This advanced finishing technique involves applying dry powder particles electrostatically to metal surfaces, creating a protective barrier that withstands harsh environmental conditions whilst maintaining exceptional visual quality.

Understanding the Powder Coating Process

The powder coating metal process begins with thorough surface preparation, typically involving sandblasting or chemical cleaning to ensure optimal adhesion. Metal components are then suspended in a spray booth where electrostatically charged powder particles are applied using specialised spray guns. The electrostatic charge ensures even distribution and attracts powder particles to every surface contour, eliminating common issues like runs, sags, and drips associated with conventional painting methods.

Exceptional Durability and Performance

When powder coating metal surfaces, the curing process creates a chemical bond that delivers superior resistance to chipping, scratching, fading, and corrosion. Unlike traditional paint systems, powder coated finishes maintain their integrity for decades, making them ideal for automotive components, outdoor furniture, architectural applications, and industrial equipment. The thickness uniformity achieved through powder coating ensures consistent protection across complex geometries and hard-to-reach areas.

Environmental and Economic Advantages

Powder coating metal processes offer significant environmental benefits compared to solvent-based alternatives. The system produces virtually no volatile organic compounds (VOCs), contributing to cleaner air quality and regulatory compliance. Additionally, overspray powder can be reclaimed and reused, achieving utilisation rates exceeding 95% and substantially reducing material waste. These factors combine to create compelling cost savings whilst supporting sustainability objectives.

Versatile Applications Across Industries

The versatility of powder coating metal extends across numerous sectors, from architectural ironwork requiring weather resistance to precision engineering components demanding chemical compatibility. Automotive manufacturers utilise powder coating for chassis components, wheels, and trim pieces, whilst appliance producers rely on this technology for durable, easy-to-clean surfaces. The extensive colour palette and texture options available enable designers to achieve specific aesthetic requirements without compromising performance.

Quality Considerations and Best Practices

Successful powder coating metal requires careful attention to substrate preparation, powder selection, and curing parameters. Professional application ensures proper film thickness, typically ranging from 25-100 microns depending on performance requirements. Certified applicators understand the critical relationship between metal type, powder chemistry, and cure conditions necessary to achieve optimal adhesion and longevity.

Choosing Professional Powder Coating Services

When selecting powder coating metal services, evaluate facilities based on equipment capabilities, quality certifications, and track record with similar applications. Leading providers offer comprehensive testing protocols, including adhesion testing, salt spray evaluation, and colour matching verification to ensure consistent results.

Powder coating metal represents the gold standard in protective finishing, delivering unmatched durability, environmental responsibility, and aesthetic versatility for today’s demanding applications.

Ready to enhance your metal components with professional powder coating? Contact our certified specialists today for a comprehensive consultation and competitive quotation tailored to your specific requirements.

[doberbutts]

Sorry you've apparently become The Rabies Guy overnight lol. But since you have, and it was absolutely a childhood special interest/fear of mine that's 👉👉 laid dormant 👉👉 for quite some time, would you happen to know (if you're not sick of rabies asks by now)-

1) why is the rabies vaccine itself so much cheaper and easier to make and administer in dogs and cats than for humans? Obviously part of the cost equation is just that demand dictates production scale and its easier to educate and avoid in the human relationship to rabies, but it's interesting to me that we don't treat it like tetanus or other relatively-rarer and somewhat avoidable/environmental risks we do still vax for, and that are produced at scale accordingly and so are cheaper. I've heard the other factor of low demand is that it's also a pretty rough vaccine for people that work in relevant professions that *do* have to get it to receive (and is even worse if you have to get it after being potentially exposed). It doesn't seem that way for pets though? I'd be interested to hear if you have any insights into all that from the vetmed side.

2) are you aware of any changes that the recent mRNA vax advancements of recent years may be bringing to the way we approach the rabies vaccine in pets or people? That'd be cool and interesting!

Thanks! Hope people aren't being too rabidly annoying in your notifs lol

1: There's a couple different factors here:

To my knowledge the human rabies vaccination and the dog rabies vaccination and the cat rabies vaccination and the hoofstock rabies vaccination are all slightly different from each other with different methods of creation and ingredients and dosing. This will contribute to the difference in cost.

Simply put, animal medicine is often cheaper than human medicine because human medicine has inflated prices due to hospital and insurance markups. In other words, if your human hospital scaled the cost of services the way your dog's hospital does, and health insurance wasn't a thing that exists, the price would be astronomical. If you ever go to an ER and get fluids, compare the "before insurance" price of just your room and bag of saline and catheter to what your vet charges for the same thing.

The animals we vaccinate for rabies do experience a lot of the same side effects, but animals are stoic and do not often complain about the side effects. Lethargy, muscle aches, low grade fever, vaccine-site soreness and localized reaction (swelling, redness), depression, and irritability are all common side effects of the rabies vaccination in our domesticated animals. Usually these side effects resolve within 24 hours but can last in rare cases up to a week. Less commonly, vomiting, diarrhea, facial swelling, and trouble breathing, but those are more allergic reactions than side effects. This is why a lot of anti-vaxxers don't want to vaccinate their pets for rabies, it does put a lot of stress on the immune system and thus can result in some pretty dramatic symptoms. It's just that "1 to 7 days of feeling shitty every couple years" is a significantly preferable outcome to "rabies outbreak".

Post-exposure prophylaxes is something else entirely- immunoglobulin is administered in addition to the vaccination to give your body a running start on the whole "don't let rabies get to my brain" thing. This is not an option for exposed domesticated animals, so not only is this very expensive but it is also human-exclusive because immunoglobulin is not cheap or easy to get ahold of and thus all of it that we have is dedicated to human cases.

Remember, in countries with robust vaccination protocols for domesticated pets and a culture of keeping their domesticated animals contained and away from wildlife, human deaths are fairly rare and are caused by rabies virus are almost exclusively caused by encounters with wildlife, which is why in those countries the chosen path is "tell people to stop touching animals they can't verify vaccine status of" and not "vaccinate everyone". The US has maximum like 5 human deaths due to rabies per year. Compare that to India, where vaccine availability is not as good and there is a very serious loose, wandering dog problem, and that number soars to 21,000 human deaths due to rabies per year. If 21,000 humans in India are dying from rabies, what percentage of them are receiving an incomplete post-exposure prophylaxes (usually incomplete due to expense) and what are the numbers for people who were able to complete the series (largely those who either can afford it or who chose serious debt over a grisly death)? We need that immunoglobulin to help the people we can still save from rabies exposure, so it's not really available in large amounts to be experimenting with pets every time a dog picks a fight with a fox or raccoon.

(Also the problem is that rabies bites tend to cause severe trauma, which you can't really deliberately cause severe trauma to an animal in a laboratory ethically, and even if you could you can't do it to easily handled animals like mice because as said before most rodents can't survive that level of trauma for very long before they just die, and researchers very do not want to deal with the potential of handling known rabid dogs, so that's sort of at a standstill as far as studies go)

(Also also, the Milwaukee Protocol costs $800,000 to attempt to save a single person and as discussed has a significant failure rate, so if people aren't getting PEP due to expense, they very can't afford the incredibly expensive experimental treatment that's more likely to kill them than save them either, so it's not like with that amount of deaths we've gotten a lot of people trying anything more than strapping that person down and waiting for them to die)

In addition, of those 21,000 deaths, over 96% of them are caused by bites from dogs. This means that if we fix the loose, wandering dog problem, rabies cases should plummet very similarly to the way they did in the US when we started enforcing our own rabies protocols. There are programs in place to fix this problem but it is multifaceted in origin and not as simple as one might think. As said before, dogs are the #1 rabies vector in the world, even if rabies is technically a "bat virus". The only reason we blame bats here in the US is because we fixed the dog problem. Not every country has been able to do that.

So... very much a complex problem with not a very easy solution. This costs a lot of money and countries just do not have the funds to pour into experiments solving a disease that's more or less 100% fatal when they could just as easily tell people to stop touching animals that aren't vaccinated.

2: The only change I'm aware of is that there's an ongoing attempt to create a single-dose rabies and chemical castration vaccine as a one-and-done to help countries like India and others with loose wandering dogs, which will both cut down on the dog population because they won't be able to breed, and also will cut down on rabies infections within the dog population that currently exists. They have not yet been successful. Again, resolving the problem of the packs of unvaccinated dogs living in close proximity to humans will significantly reduce the instance of rabies deaths in humans as well, since that is the leading cause of rabies spread to humans at time of writing worldwide.