I was different. I was Bleed 35.
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.
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 . JK Navel Stab Bleed 35
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.
“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. I was different
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.
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. He looked at his clipboard, where a ticker
But they had stopped. Thirty-four little medical tents. Thirty-four band-aids. Thirty-four apologies.
His mom squinted at my bloody tunic. “Probably just method acting, honey.”
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.”