Roguelike Hack and Slash 2025-11-13T19:50:28Z

Gatorade CenterHockey, music and other family events!Food and beverage services can now be ordered to your place:Choose from a wide selection of your favorite product and enter your location informationAvailable e.g. self-made burgers, Atria Crispy Chicken products and fresh bagelsYou can choose from cold or hot non-alcoholic productsYou will also find alcoholic products in the selection of the auditorium restaurant (K-18)More

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Rain hammered the tin roof like angry coins as I stood in that greasy garage bay, knuckles white around a Honda Civic converter. The buyer's grin widened when he saw my hesitation. "Fifty bucks – final offer." My gut screamed it was worth triple, but without proof, I was just another sucker holding scrap metal. That night, I nearly threw the damn thing into the river.

It was one of those sweltering afternoons when the AC in my apartment decided to give up, leaving me sticky and irritable after back-to-back Zoom calls. I slumped on the couch, scrolling aimlessly through the app store, craving a distraction that didn't involve doomscrolling through news feeds. That's when I spotted it—an icon shimmering like an iridescent pearl against the dull grid of productivity tools. Without a second thought, I tapped download, and within seconds, I was plunged into a worl

My knuckles were still stiff from eight hours of spreadsheet hell when the notification pinged. Another soul-crushing email about quarterly projections. I hurled my phone onto the couch, where it bounced against the forgotten piano method books I’d bought during last year’s "reinvent yourself" phase. Those glossy pages mocked me—too many symbols, too little time. Desperate for anything resembling human joy, I scrolled aimlessly until a neon-blue icon caught my eye: a keyboard shimmering like liq

Rain lashed against my home office window as I stared at the merciless glow of Xcode. My fingers hovered over the keyboard, paralyzed by a segmentation fault that had haunted me for three straight days. As an iOS developer, I'd hit that terrifying wall where logic dissolves into gibberish - every variable blurred together, every function call felt like reading hieroglyphs after midnight. That's when my thumb instinctively swiped left on the iPad, seeking refuge in blue grid lines instead of gree

I remember the day I downloaded LifeingPregnancy like it was yesterday—my hands trembling slightly as I held my phone, the blue icon promising a sanctuary from the whirlwind of emotions that had taken over my life. It was my first pregnancy, and I was drowning in a sea of unsolicited advice from well-meaning friends and family, coupled with my own rampant anxiety. Every twinge, every slight discomfort sent me spiraling into Google searches that only fueled my fears with worst-case scenarios. I n

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It was a rainy Tuesday evening, and I was hunched over my desk, surrounded by open textbooks and scattered notes. The scent of old paper and anxiety hung thick in the air. I had been staring at the same thermodynamics problem for what felt like hours—something about entropy and heat transfer that made my brain feel like mush. My fingers trembled as I flipped through pages, each equation blurring into the next. Engineering school was supposed to be my dream, but in that moment, it felt more like

Tomato sauce bubbled violently like molten lava as garlic fumes stung my eyes. Onion skins clung to my fingers like stubborn barnacles while three timers screamed in dissonant harmony. My phone lay discarded on the flour-dusted counter, its screen fractured by greasy smears from my frantic app-switching between recipe blogs, messaging panicked guests about delays, and restarting Spotify after ads interrupted my cooking playlist. That moment when caramelized shallots crossed from golden perfectio

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Rain lashed against the train station windows as I frantically patted down my empty pockets, the cold dread hitting harder than the Berlin downpour. My wallet—gone. Stolen right off the U-Bahn during rush hour chaos. Passport? Still at the hostel, thank god. Cards? Cash? All vanished with that leather thief. Panic clawed up my throat like bile as I stared at the ticket machine’s glowing screen: 19 euros to get back across the city. No coins, no plastic, just a dying phone at 7% battery and the s

Rain lashed against my jeep's windshield like gravel, turning the dirt track into a chocolate river. Somewhere beyond the curtain of water stood Rajiv's farmhouse – and his Tata Play subscription expired tomorrow. My fingers drummed against the soaked ledger on the passenger seat, ink bleeding across months of payment records. That familiar acid taste of panic rose in my throat. One more lost customer in this downpour, and I'd be explaining red numbers to my area manager again. Then my thumb bru

Rain lashed against the Barcelona hostel window as I fumbled for my phone charger in the dark. Midnight here meant 6AM back home – that vulnerable hour when shadows play tricks on suburban streets. My thumb jammed against the power button, still sticky with paella residue from dinner. The screen flared to life, then Alibi Vigilant Mobile vomited a seizure-inducing crimson alert across the display. "MOTION DETECTED - BACK DOOR." My esophagus clenched like a fist.

It was a sweltering afternoon in downtown Austin, the kind where the heat shimmers off the pavement and your shirt sticks to your back within minutes. I was manning my food truck, "Taco Twist," and the lunch rush had hit like a tidal wave. Customers lined up, hungry and impatient, while I juggled orders, sizzling pans, and a clunky old card reader that seemed to have a personal vendetta against me. That machine—a relic from the early 2000s—would freeze mid-transaction, beep erratically, and once

Scrolling through my sunset-lit feed, that sinking feeling hit again. Another perfect engagement opportunity lost because my Instagram bio screamed "LINK IN BIO" while hiding three different projects behind a single URL. My travel photography prints? Buried beneath workshop registrations. A fresh blog post about Moroccan souks? Drowned out by preset bundle promotions. That pit-of-the-stomach frustration when someone DMs "Where's the workshop link?" after you've switched URLs for the fifth time t

Rain tapped a morse code against my hood as I lay belly-down in the marsh mud, binoculars digging into my ribs. For seven dawns I'd stalked the crimson-breasted shama thrush - a jewel that vanished each time my phone's shutter screamed into the stillness. Today, desperation tasted like copper on my tongue. I'd installed Silent Camera after reading a forum rant about "that damnable electronic squawk," though hope felt thinner than the mist curling over the reeds.

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Rain lashed against the office windows as my phone buzzed violently – not another Teams notification, but a live alert showing movers unloading furniture in my building's lobby. My blood ran cold. That antique walnut desk I'd imported from Portugal sat vulnerable in its shipping crate, exposed to careless handlers and torrential downpour. Six months ago, I'd have sprinted through traffic, abandoning back-to-back meetings to physically intercept deliveries. Now? My trembling fingers stabbed at th