35 — Jk Navel Stab Bleed

I smiled, clutching my belly. Bleed 35. The most memorable nobody at the con.

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.

“The one the safety pin missed,” I replied. JK Navel Stab Bleed 35

I was different. I was Bleed 35.

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.” I smiled, clutching my belly

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.

“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. The star-compass, designed to sit flat, had been

His mom squinted at my bloody tunic. “Probably just method acting, honey.”

Outside, a kid pointed at the ambulance. “Mom, is that cosplayer okay?”

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 .