The star-compass, designed to sit flat, had been driven inward by the impact. I looked down. A perfect circle of red was blooming on my white tunic, right over my belly button. A navel stab.
I was different. I was Bleed 35.
“Medic,” I said calmly. No one heard. The crowd roared as a famous voice actor took the stage.
I didn’t call for help. I didn’t panic. I turned, walked through the service corridor, and found the paramedic, a bored-looking man named Steve. “Navel stab,” I said, lifting my shirt. “Bleed 35.” JK Navel Stab Bleed 35
“The one the safety pin missed,” I replied.
As he pressed gauze to my wound, the star-compass still gleaming with my blood, I realized the truth. The safety pin was just a distraction. The real villain was chaos. But me? I was the statistic that broke the streak. I was the punchline that became a legend.
I looked at the blood. It was a lot. A shocking, poetic amount. It seeped through the fabric, tracing a line down my abs. I remembered the thirty-four others. Tripped on wires. Elbowed in the ribs. One poor soul felled by a falling foam axe. All minor. All embarrassing. All bleeding . The star-compass, designed to sit flat, had been
The convention center floor was a graveyard of glitter and dreams. Thirty-four cosplayers had already fallen. Their costumes, once vibrant testaments to fandom, were now tattered shrouds. The culprit? A safety pin. A single, rogue, oversized safety pin that had popped from a handmade cloak and skittered into the dark.
The pain was a supernova.
“Just a quick adjustment,” I whispered, fiddling with the clasp. The crowd for the main stage was surging. A Gundam knocked into a Pikachu, who stumbled into me. A navel stab
I was Cosplayer 35. My name is Kiko, and I was dressed as a hyper-detailed space pirate. My centerpiece was a gleaming, golden navel ring shaped like a miniature star-compass.
Outside, a kid pointed at the ambulance. “Mom, is that cosplayer okay?”
His mom squinted at my bloody tunic. “Probably just method acting, honey.”
I smiled, clutching my belly. Bleed 35. The most memorable nobody at the con.
Steve’s eyes widened. He looked at his clipboard, where a ticker read: Minor Incidents: 34 . He drew a shaky line. “You’re the one,” he whispered.
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