Your ID, and only the part they asked for.
Proof answers the question you were asked, and nothing else.
document. Digits zeroed.
document. Digits zeroed.
Hotel front desk, 9:12 am
One question was asked. Ten answers walked out.
The clerk needed to know you are an adult. What he took was a sheet of paper carrying your street, your birthday and the twelve digits that unlock everything else.
document. Digits zeroed.
What that one sheet carried
A card that shows four digits.
The rest of the number stays behind a hatch. Your face unlocks it, and it lives on this phone, not on a server.
document. Digits zeroed.
Three switches you actually understand.
The sentence under the switches is the whole product. It names what leaves the phone, in words, before you send it.
A switch you left off is never quietly turned back on by the next request.
Every check, and what it cost you.
Who asked, what they got, what they did not, and when. If a row looks wrong, report it in two taps or call the helpline.
You hold four cards. Nobody else does.
Parents, a child, and a copy that works with no network.
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document. Digits zeroed.
Consent, written out as a sentence.
Three switches, one code, and a plain line naming what you give.
Nobody needs a photocopy of your whole life.
A hotel desk asked one question. It does not need your date of birth, your street, or twelve digits that open every door you own.
document. Digits zeroed.
document. Digits zeroed.