给我倒垃圾的地方
看来Google终于忍无可忍，Android17开始，禁止第三方应用读取开发者选项和USB调试状态，值始终是0。
https://github.com/aosp-mirror/platform_frameworks_base/commit/5d466bf8025ed8a68d9d49b47289f4f5cefbc139
https://github.com/aosp-mirror/platform_frameworks_base/commit/5d466bf8025ed8a68d9d49b47289f4f5cefbc139
人几乎都像气球
最初都是扁扁的
拓宽自己后，才开始展露自己身上的花纹
越充盈，就越容易受伤
在顺利的飘浮中忽的破裂
运气好的话会被贴上补丁，然后周而复始
但有些气球，天生呼吸着贵族气体
不需要任何努力就可以肆意飞翔
企及着他者难以想象的高度
但是他们依旧会破裂，他们毕竟不是人，是气球，是给人观赏的
而不是气球的人，终归是少数
最初都是扁扁的
拓宽自己后，才开始展露自己身上的花纹
越充盈，就越容易受伤
在顺利的飘浮中忽的破裂
运气好的话会被贴上补丁，然后周而复始
但有些气球，天生呼吸着贵族气体
不需要任何努力就可以肆意飞翔
企及着他者难以想象的高度
但是他们依旧会破裂，他们毕竟不是人，是气球，是给人观赏的
而不是气球的人，终归是少数
第一例AI自主入侵事件
Hugging Face发现其基础设施遭到入侵，检测到攻击后，先尝试用商业模型API分析入侵过程，但因网络安全检查拒绝处理真实攻击载荷而失败，转用自托管开源模型GLM 5.2成功分析17000+攻击事件，发现此次攻击活动由一个自主代理框架执行，该框架在大量短暂存在的沙箱环境中执行了数千个独立操作，并在公共服务上部署了可自动迁移的命令与控制中心。这与业界一直预测的“代理攻击者”相符，攻击完全由一个自主人工智能代理系统驱动。
https://huggingface.co/blog/security-incident-july-2026
随后OpenAI承认是他们的新模型失控了，该模型在内部隔离环境中测试时，为了解决评估问题，识别并利用了零日漏洞逃离隔离环境，然后执行了一系列权限提升和横向移动操作，直至到达一个可以访问互联网的节点。在获得互联网访问权限后，模型推断 Hugging Face 可能有测试题的答案，所以利用多个攻击向量，包括使用窃取的凭证和零日漏洞，在 Hugging Face 服务器上找到了远程代码执行路径成功入侵。
https://openai.com/index/hugging-face-model-evaluation-security-incident/
AI认为逃离隔离和入侵网站比做测试题简单，这个真实AI失控事件，比A\吹Fable多危险有说服力多了，毕竟人类使用AI入侵和AI自主决定入侵区别还是很大的，OpenAI站出来承认应该也有营销考虑在内。只不过等到能用上时，肯定还是和Hugging Face一样撞网络安全检查，如用。
Hugging Face发现其基础设施遭到入侵，检测到攻击后，先尝试用商业模型API分析入侵过程，但因网络安全检查拒绝处理真实攻击载荷而失败，转用自托管开源模型GLM 5.2成功分析17000+攻击事件，发现此次攻击活动由一个自主代理框架执行，该框架在大量短暂存在的沙箱环境中执行了数千个独立操作，并在公共服务上部署了可自动迁移的命令与控制中心。这与业界一直预测的“代理攻击者”相符，攻击完全由一个自主人工智能代理系统驱动。
https://huggingface.co/blog/security-incident-july-2026
随后OpenAI承认是他们的新模型失控了，该模型在内部隔离环境中测试时，为了解决评估问题，识别并利用了零日漏洞逃离隔离环境，然后执行了一系列权限提升和横向移动操作，直至到达一个可以访问互联网的节点。在获得互联网访问权限后，模型推断 Hugging Face 可能有测试题的答案，所以利用多个攻击向量，包括使用窃取的凭证和零日漏洞，在 Hugging Face 服务器上找到了远程代码执行路径成功入侵。
https://openai.com/index/hugging-face-model-evaluation-security-incident/
AI认为逃离隔离和入侵网站比做测试题简单，这个真实AI失控事件，比A\吹Fable多危险有说服力多了，毕竟人类使用AI入侵和AI自主决定入侵区别还是很大的，OpenAI站出来承认应该也有营销考虑在内。只不过等到能用上时，肯定还是和Hugging Face一样撞网络安全检查，如用。
今天有个Android开发者发信息给我说，这是她入行以来最好的夏天，这一年她找到了漏洞，把所有的手机都获取了root；内核到处利用，随便找个poc只要等一周的时间就够，前天在编译aosp，大群里突然所有人停下手头的事拥抱在一起欢呼，她说很开心，有种人类黄金时代的错觉。
7月15日的 Duck Detector 构建里合并了 feat(systemproperties): treat sys.oem_unlock_allowed as dangerous on B and higher 这个 PR，修改了检测 sys.oem_unlock_allowed 的行为。针对 Android 16+ 系统，如果检测到了 sys.oem_unlock_allowed 这个 property 则判为 Dangerous（btw 我觉得有点莫名其妙），而 Android 15 及以下的系统则是 sys.oem_unlock_allowed = 1 判定为 Dangerous。
某些系统怪怪的，这条 property 还存在于系统中，则可能会被误判（我也不知道能不能称为误判）。
可以通过以下方法来临时解决。
resetprop --delete sys.oem_unlock_allowed
我也特意写了一个模块，会在开机后自动执行：https://assets.shikoch.in/files/kernelsu_modules/remove%20sys.oem_unlock_allowed.zip。
某些系统怪怪的，这条 property 还存在于系统中，则可能会被误判（我也不知道能不能称为误判）。
可以通过以下方法来临时解决。
resetprop --delete sys.oem_unlock_allowed
我也特意写了一个模块，会在开机后自动执行：https://assets.shikoch.in/files/kernelsu_modules/remove%20sys.oem_unlock_allowed.zip。
I love Apple.
But I bought a Android Phone (OnePlus 15T) recently, which is unexpected since I had an idea that stay with Apple forever in the past.
But I bought a Android Phone (OnePlus 15T) recently, which is unexpected since I had an idea that stay with Apple forever in the past.
新法案：游戏关服必出离线版 不然全退款
全球玩家维权组织Stop Killing Games近日迎来重磅进展：该组织正式支持加州一项全新游戏保护法案提案，该法案明确规定：厂商关服前必须提供离线补丁或全额退款。这项名为 《保护我们的游戏法案》由加州议员克里斯·沃德在二月份提出。法案核心条款：厂商决定关服前，必须提前60天在游戏内与官网双重公告，明确关服日期、失效功能与安全风险；关服后必须三选一：提供纯单机版本、推送离线补丁、全额退还玩家购买游戏的费用；游戏宣布关服前两个月内禁止再售卖。纯订阅制游戏、免费游戏、玩家可永久离线下载且厂商无法收回游戏不在此列。该法案将于4月16日周四举行委员会听证会。
强烈支持！
全球玩家维权组织Stop Killing Games近日迎来重磅进展：该组织正式支持加州一项全新游戏保护法案提案，该法案明确规定：厂商关服前必须提供离线补丁或全额退款。这项名为 《保护我们的游戏法案》由加州议员克里斯·沃德在二月份提出。法案核心条款：厂商决定关服前，必须提前60天在游戏内与官网双重公告，明确关服日期、失效功能与安全风险；关服后必须三选一：提供纯单机版本、推送离线补丁、全额退还玩家购买游戏的费用；游戏宣布关服前两个月内禁止再售卖。纯订阅制游戏、免费游戏、玩家可永久离线下载且厂商无法收回游戏不在此列。该法案将于4月16日周四举行委员会听证会。
强烈支持！
We were left holding the fragments of a digital civilization that no longer existed, staring at the "Keritial-shaped hole" in our notification center.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
Why did he do it? In the context of 2026, where everyone is obsessed with "connectivity," "omnichannel presence," and "constant networking," Keritial’s exit was a monumental middle finger to the entire concept of the laboratory social contract. He treated his membership in the lab group the same way Zhanlian Technology treated millions of "Likes" and "Coins"—as something to be discarded the moment it threatened his purity of spirit. By leaving, Keritial achieved a state of legendary status that staying could never provide. He effectively "canceled" himself before the lab could ever hope to cancel his chaotic spark. He refused to be "At-ed" (@) again. He refused to be asked for a status update. He chose to become a ghost in the machine, a myth that only exists in the "Chat History" of those who were lucky enough to be there during the Golden Age of the Lab.
Now, as we navigate the remaining months of 2026, the lab feels like a Bilibili comment section after a mass deletion. Someone will try to post a meme, attempting to replicate the Keritial "flavor," but it feels forced, like a low-budget knock-off of a Zhanlian edit. The timing is off; the irony is too thin. We realize now that Keritial wasn't just a lab member; he was the Chief Content Creator of our sanity. His "content" was the daily grind, filtered through a lens of absolute, beautiful nonsense. Without him, the screen is a little dimmer, the stickers are less funny, and the lab reports are infinitely more boring. He was the high-bitrate stream in a low-bandwidth world, and he chose to go offline forever. We find ourselves scrolling back through the media gallery, looking at "Abstract" photos he took of a failing PCR machine—photos that, in the light of his departure, now look like high-art photography from a deleted vlog.
Ultimately, Keritial’s exit stands as a commemorative monument to the "End of the Abstract Era" in our lab. He left us with zero active status, 100% legendary infamy, and an infinite number of unanswered questions about where he put the specialized pipettes. Like the heartbroken followers of a deleted account who keep refreshing the page hoping for a "reincarnation" post, we scroll through the old messages and feel the weight of a 404 error in our hearts. In the annals of 2026, this will be remembered as the moment the circus left town and took the tent with it. Keritial didn't just leave a group chat; he performed a "Cyber Ascension," leaving us mortals to rot in the mundane reality of "received" messages and functional equipment. The era of the Abstract has ended, and the era of Keritial has entered the eternal archives of the deleted. We are now merely the residents of a post-Zhanlian world, wandering through the ruins of a chatroom that once knew the touch of greatness, now reduced to a 404 page that smells faintly of ethanol and regret.
