The Twelve Months of AppSec
Fairy Tale — AppSec 2025 overview in 12 months
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The Twelve Months of AppSec
Zero Daysky worked at Fufelshmertz Mischief Incorporated, a place where every hallway smelled faintly of coffee, deadlines, and "we’ll fix it next sprint."
One evening, he stayed up late to write a "Year in Review" post for the team blog. Something nice. Something festive.
After he finished his work, he stepped into the elevator, pressed the button, and watched the panel blink as if it was thinking.
The doors closed.
The elevator sighed.
And instead of going up, it went elsewhere. When the doors opened again, Zero Daysky walked into a foggy forest. A fire crackled in a clearing. Around it sat twelve figures — not quite people, not quite seasons. They wore no crowns, no titles. Just the quiet certainty of months that have seen too much.
January
January looked up first.
He didn’t smile at all — not because he was rude, but because he never really gets a break. January looked like someone who had barely finished cleaning up 2024’s mess when a fresh set of footprints appeared in the snow.
Above him, heavy clouds pressed low. And among them, one cloud was darker than the rest — thick, official, and full of forms. The cloud had a name written in icy letters: DORA.
It was snowing, a kind of snow that doesn’t melt — it just becomes policy.
January nodded at Zero Daysky like an older brother who’d seen you walk into trouble and decided to let you learn. "Happy New Year," he said. "It’s a fresh start. Which means… new exploits."
He handed Zero Daysky a small lantern. "Keep moving," January said. "And when you meet February — tell him to Shift Left as fast as he can."
Zero Daysky walked on.
February
February stood under a freezing drizzle that wasn’t quite rain and wasn’t quite snow — the kind that soaks through your coat and makes you question every "work from office" choice that led you outdoors.
If January was tired, February was tight. Compressed. Short. Intense. Every breath felt like it came with a deadline.
"January sent you," February said, as if he’d been expecting the message. "He always does."
A gust of wind ripped through the trees and carried something with it: a page torn from a catalog — the kind that becomes a calendar reminder you cannot snooze. February’s storm had dates inside it, and one date mattered: Feb 13, 2025 — when a SimpleHelp RMM vulnerability was added to CISA’s Known Exploited list, the kind of note that quietly turns into a loud week.
February stared at Zero Daysky as if measuring how much optimism he had left.
"Winter months teach one thing," he said. "Exposure isn’t seasonal."
Then he leaned closer, and lowered his voice:
"When you meet March… don’t follow footprints. Follow commits."
He flicked his wrist, and the drizzle became needles of sleet that pointed down a narrow path.
Zero Daysky kept walking — and soon the forest smelled faintly of smoke.
March
March was sitting by the fire, warming his hands — not over logs, but over something that looked suspiciously like a burning CI log.
"Don’t panic," March said quickly. "It’s symbolic."
Zero Daysky looked closer. In the flames, he could make out shapes: credentials, tokens, secrets that should never have been visible… now flickering like a cautionary bedtime story.
March didn’t smile. March smirked — the expression of a month that has watched the same plot twist happen in different costumes. "See those tracks?" March said, pointing at the snow.
"Those aren’t wolves."
He tapped the ground with a stick.
"It's a supply chain."
Then March told the story everyone was scared to repeat: the tj-actions/changed-files compromise — a third-party GitHub Action incident that forced people to re-learn the ancient law: anything in your pipeline is part of your attack surface.
March tossed another handful of "logs" into the fire. The smoke formed a weirdly common shape: a checklist. He handed Zero Daysky a folded note.
"April will want to talk about numbers," March said. "Bring coffee. And don’t pretend third-party risk is theoretical."
Zero Daysky tucked the note away and followed the path as the air warmed.
April
April waited on a hill, where the ground looked almost solid. He was holding a book so thick it looked like it had its own gravity. On the cover: Verizon DBIR 2025.
"This comes out every year," April said gently, like someone explaining a family tradition. "And every year, people act surprised." He opened the book and the pages fluttered like birds. Numbers rose into the air — incidents, breaches, patterns — forming constellations above the trees.
Zero Daysky watched the constellations and felt that familiar feeling: "Oh. It wasn’t just us."
April closed the book carefully.
"May will be warmer," April said. "Which makes people careless. Remind him: attackers don’t take spring holidays."
And with that, April pointed to a trail.
May
May looked friendly. Bright. The month that convinces teams they can ship faster because the sun is out. May spoke softly, almost proudly:
"Berlin. A contest. Researchers showing how something could be done… and then the world slowly realizing it might be done to them."
Zero Daysky didn’t ask for details.
May handed him a little paper umbrella — the kind you get in summer drinks.
"You’ll need this in June," May said. "It won’t stop the rain. But it’ll remind you should always think about the cover."
June
June arrived like a heatwave… and then immediately ruined it. It was a summer storm made of ransom notes and downed vendors.
June held up a sign that said RMM.
June looked at Zero Daysky with the patience of someone explaining the same lesson for the hundredth time: "Remote management is convenient," June said. "So is leaving your keys in the door."
"Keep walking," June said. "July is where the fireworks are. Not the fun kind."
July
July didn’t wait in the forest. July jumped out from behind like a prankster. On July’s sleeve, just one word was stitched: ToolShell
> Microsoft published customer guidance around the same time, including patching and key rotation.
"Everyone wants to go outside," July said. "Attackers, too." He handed Zero Daysky a sparkler. "Don’t wave it near Production," July added, perfectly deadpan.
Zero Daysky walked on with the sparkler in hand, hoping it was symbolic again.
August
August smelled like dust, heat, and backlog. He carried statistics and poured numbers into Zero Daysky’s palms like sand:
Zero Daysky stared at the sand, while August pointed down the path.
"September is where people return from vacation".
September
September was crisp, he smelled like papers and coffee. He sat on a clean stone and was polishing a screen. On the screen, Zero Daysky saw a browser tab.
"We keep building faster," September said. "And then we act shocked when the cracks run faster too." He tilted his head, as if remembering something.
"Also," September added, "people keep asking: ‘Why isn’t there a good SCA story for Delphi yet?’ Good question tho."
He let that hang in the air as a joke. Then September handed Zero Daysky a sealed envelope.
"By the way, October is a drama queen," he said. "But he’ll pretend he isn’t."
October
October arrived in the hurricane of wind and leaves. With a strong feeling that something is about to fall apart. Drama, as promised. He was carving a pumpkin. Whilst instead of a face, he carved CVE-shaped holes.
October held the pumpkin up to the firelight, and the holes glowed. "Seasonal flavors," October said. "KEV-spice."
Zero Daysky actually laughed. October handed him the pumpkin like a gift. "November is a quiet guy," October said. "Which is how you know he’s dead serious."
November
November didn’t sit by the fireplace. He stood just beyond it, where the dark smoke begins. November spoke the way people speak when they don’t want to make a big deal out of a big deal:
"Someone did it," he said. "They ran an operation with AI as part of the orchestration."
Zero Daysky felt a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. November leaned in, "The scary part isn’t that AI exists," he said. "It’s potential growth that’s expensive."
He handed Zero Daysky a tiny bell. "Ring this for December," November said. "He’ll be wrapping warnings in ribbons."
December
December appeared with the scent of cinnamon, colors of lights, and the illusion of peace. He offered Zero Daysky a mug of something sweet, and said, very politely:
"Before you go… one last thing."
> Then December, as if to keep tradition alive, tossed a final log into the fire — and the familiar rattle came again: another CISA KEV update on Dec 16, 2025.
December smiled gently, the way family members smile when they say a toast. "Now," he said, "you can write your Year In Review post."
Zero Daysky looked at all the twelve months. He thought about the line he’d been trying to write all year: "Christmas is coming. New Year is around the corner…"
And this time it didn’t feel fake. 2025 was real. So is 2026. The elevator reappeared behind him, doors opened like nothing happened.
Zero Daysky stepped in. As the doors closed, he heard January’s voice from the forest:
"See you next year," January said. "Try to bring better shoes."
And in the quiet, Zero Daysky finally knew how to end the post:
Merry Christmas and Happy New Year.
See you in 2026 — with Delphi SCA, Delphi SBOM… and more surprises (you can dream of).
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