Blaza was in the middle of casually chatting on Discord, waiting for the game to load. “Man, this lobby’s taking forever,” he said, leaning back in his chair. “I could stretch, do yoga, maybe cook dinner before this queue pops.”

He raised both arms overhead in an exaggerated stretch, letting out a yawn— WHAM.

A sickening thud followed by a choked, panicked yell came through his mic.

“Yo—Blaza?” Socks said immediately, the tone in his voice switching from amused to alert.

More rustling. A sharp, shaky inhale.

“Okay. Okay. That… that’s not good,” Blaza muttered, voice strained. “It sliced my hand. Like—actually sliced it.”

“What?!” Nadwe said, sitting up. “What do you mean sliced?”

Blaza's breathing got faster, the headset shifting awkwardly. “I forgot the fan was on. My hand went straight into the blades. It—it cut across three fingers. It’s not deep-deep, but there’s, like, real blood. Like running down my wrist blood.”

Socks went quiet. “You need to pause and go deal with that, dude.”

“I am!” Blaza snapped, his voice shaky but still trying to be calm. “I’ve got tissue on it but it’s not stopping. The fan hit hard. I felt one of the blades actually like—scrape the bone on my knuckle, man.”

“Dude,” Meme said, horrified, “why are you still in the call?!”

Blaza let out a dry, nervous laugh. “I didn’t think it’d be this bad. At first it just stung—now it’s full-on horror movie.”

They heard the sound of drawers opening, things clattering.

“I need a bandage. Or duct tape. Or something.” He paused, voice lower. “Okay. Yeah. Getting dizzy. Gonna—gonna wrap this up and elevate it or whatever.”

“Please don’t bleed out live in voice chat,” Nadwe muttered.

“I won’t,” Blaza replied weakly. “But if I die… tell the fan it won.”

He left the call a few seconds later, mumbling something about antiseptic and bad life choices.