Protect Your Privacy: National Data Privacy Day!

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SteFun burst in to Al’s room — still wearing his headset

— Al! Al! Look!
— What happened? — Al turned away from the screen.

— Someone messaged me in Roblox!
They said they can give me Robux.
For free.
Well… almost free.

— Almost free? — Al raised an eyebrow.

— They said it’s a “special event for players.”
That they “work with admins.”
And that I need to hurry — there are only a few spots left.

— And what did they ask you for? — Al asked calmly.

— First, my username. I gave it.
Then they said:
“To receive Robux, you need to confirm your account.”
And they sent me a link.

SteFun paused.

— I didn’t click it yet, — he added quickly. —
But… the page looked exactly like Roblox.

Al moved closer

— Let me guess, — he said. —
Did it say:
“Log in to receive your reward”?

— YES!
And there was a timer!
Like, “2 minutes left”!

— SteFun… — Al sighed. —
That’s a scam.

— How do you know?
— Because:
Real rewards don’t come through private messages
Admins never give Robux through links
“Hurry” + “secret” = trap
Roblox never asks for your password outside the official site

— The link was something like… roblox-free-bonus-something… — SteFun said quietly.

— Exactly.

Al clicked “Block” and “Report”

— See? — he said. —
The real reward is keeping your account safe,
not losing it.

— So… if someone promises Robux
but asks for your info — it’s always fake?

— Always, — Al nodded. —
The only real ways to get Robux are
the official store or gift cards.
Everything else is just a mask.

SteFun exhaled

— I’m glad I ran to you.
I almost clicked.

— That’s the strongest level of protection, — Al smiled. —
Stopping and asking.

Question for kids:
What would you do if someone promised you Robux “right now”?

Question for parents:
Does your child know that no game reward ever requires a password?

Save this
Share with your kids
Your data is not currency

The car was moving slowly.
Winter trees stretched past the windows, the road was almost empty, and it felt as if there was more time today than usual.

The girls had settled into the back seat. From the speakers, a song was playing.

The voice was strange — not quite ordinary.
It trembled, then smiled, then buzzed, like a bee that had suddenly decided to learn how to sing.

It was a song by ZAZ

Sofay tilted her head and asked:

“May… what is that sound?”
“Is that how she sings?”
“Or is there some kind of instrument hiding in her throat?”

The car kept moving, but an investigation had already begun inside.

“It sounds like buzzing,” May said.
“No, it’s like she’s laughing and singing at the same time,” the other girl argued.
“What if we try it like that? Mmmmm…”

The first attempt wasn’t very good.
The second was funnier.
The third ended in laughter.

When they arrived, the question was still hanging in the air.

At home, the girls immediately went searching.
A book.
A video.
Another video.

“I found it!” a voice called from the room. “It’s called a kazoo!”

The kazoo turned out to be a small instrument you don’t have to learn to play “properly.”
You don’t blow into it — you sing into it.
And it does exactly that strange buzzing thing to your voice — the same sound they had heard in the car.

There was no real kazoo nearby.
But that didn’t stop anyone.

A comb appeared on the table — flat, plastic, with teeth.
Then some baking paper.

They carefully stretched the paper over the comb.

“Done.”

The first attempt was quiet.
The second was unexpectedly loud.
The third sounded exactly like that same sound from the car.

The room filled with buzzing melodies, laughter, and strange wordless songs.
Someone tried to sing like in the car.
Someone just sang their own name.
Someone sang everything at once.

The song turned out not to be just a song.

It was an invitation.
To talk.
To experiment.
To a small discovery that begins with a question:

“How does this work?”

Sometimes the most interesting adventure doesn’t begin with a map or a plan,
but with one strange sound on the way home.