Navel Stab Bleed 35 — Jk

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.”

The pain was a supernova.

His mom squinted at my bloody tunic. “Probably just method acting, honey.” JK Navel Stab Bleed 35

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

“Medic,” I said calmly. No one heard. The crowd roared as a famous voice actor took the stage. I didn’t call for help

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.

But they had stopped. Thirty-four little medical tents. Thirty-four band-aids. Thirty-four apologies. “Navel stab,” I said, lifting my shirt

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 .