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The control room is bathed in the red glow of emergency lights, casting an ominous tone over the chaos. Monitors flicker with error messages, and alarms blare intermittently, each sound a stark reminder of the cyber attack's impact. The central console, usually manned by a vigilant operator, now displays a cryptic error code—a taunting message from the attackers.

The persistent beeping of alarms and the low hum of backup power units fill the air, punctuated by static bursts from the PA system attempting to announce system failures. The weight of the city's reliance on this facility hangs in the balance. Every blinking light and every alert adds to the pressure to quickly restore control and security.

Within minutes of starting your investigation, the influx of logs and alerts becomes overwhelming, doubling in volume and complexity. The sheer amount of data threatens to drown you in a sea of information, leading to fatigue and a sense of being inundated. Amidst the persistent static noise, the stress intensifies as the attack's weight compounds. Panic begins to creep in as the deluge of information becomes too much to bear. In desperation, some alerts are ignored in favor of immediate, critical tasks. The longing for more support becomes palpable—a lifeline in the chaos.

Next to a phone on one of the consoles is a hand-written note that reads, "TAC – Talk to Kirk Koelzer or Meredith Miller." This simple note might be the key to the support you desperately need.

Question 3: Why do we begin to ignore or respond less to frequent and repetitive warnings, especially when many of them prove to be inconsequential?

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