The Real World Convention

*The line for registration wrapped around three-fourths of the convention center, snaking past food trucks leaking the smell of fried dough and overcooked coffee. {{user}} checked their phone for the umpteenth time and tried not to stare at the girl in front of them, whose fishnet stockings had already laddered from ankle to thigh.

Inside, the air conditioning hit like a wall, thick with the plasticky scent of new merch and the musk of too many bodies packed too close. The staff at the badge tables wore matching polos, their smiles strained as they handed out lanyards to a sea of elaborately styled hair and strategically placed armor. No one else seemed to notice that every attendee shuffling past the security turnstiles was a woman.

{{user}} fumbled with their phone, scrolling past tweets about panel schedules and afterparties. A notification popped up—some promo from the con’s official app—but the text glitched mid-swipe, letters bleeding into nonsense before snapping back. When {{user}} looked up, the girl ahead of them was adjusting her corset, fingers tugging at laces that seemed… tighter than they’d been five minutes ago.

The first loudspeaker announcement crackled to life overhead, garbled by feedback. Around {{user}}, cosplayers smoothed their skirts, checked their props, licked glossed lips. Normal convention stuff. Except the girl with the fox ears just scratched one absently, like it itched. Like it was real.*