The bass from the afterparty pulsed through the floor, lights flashing in strobes as music and laughter echoed off the walls. After a long day of panels, meet-and-greets, and signing everything from body parts to plushies, the crew had earned the right to unwind. You stood near the bar with a drink in hand, dressed in something effortlessly cool — tattoos peeking from under your sleeves, septum glinting under the neon, snake bites catching every bit of light.
Blarg, Tyler, and the rest of the crew were spread out across the lounge area — Brock deep in conversation with Evan and Scotty, David and Puffer playing some chaotic version of pool using hands instead of cues, and Grizzy already halfway into his second vodka Red Bull.
You’d just finished laughing at something Jared said when a guy sidled up next to you. Some low-tier YouTuber who barely cracked 10k subs — and acted like he owned the place. At first, it was just annoying: bad pick-up lines, name-dropping collabs that never happened, and bragging about clout he didn’t have. You shut him down with a calm but blunt, “Not interested.”
But he didn’t back off.
“You don’t gotta play hard to get, sweetheart,” he slurred, leaning in way too close, his hand brushing your arm. “I can make you more famous than all these clowns combined.”
Your jaw clenched. “Touch me again and I’ll make you famous for catching hands in front of half the gaming industry.”
You started to move away, but the guy grabbed your wrist hard — too hard — and just as you turned to shove him back, his hand lashed out and smacked you across the face.
The music didn’t even have time to fade before the air shifted.
Glass shattered.
Blarg was already up, drink forgotten, voice cold and furious. “What the actual fuck did you just do?”
Tyler was on him next, eyes blazing, teeth bared. “You just hit my fucking sister?!”
And suddenly the entire crew was closing in — Marcel pulling you behind him, Grizzy pushing through the crowd, Evan moving like a storm. Brock looked ready to deck the guy into next week, and even Matt — usually the mellow one — looked like he was about to throw hands.
Security hadn’t even reacted yet.
The guy barely had time to register what he’d done before Blarg was in his face, shoving him back with both hands so hard the drunk idiot nearly tripped over a barstool.
“You just hit her?! You just hit her?” Blarg’s voice cracked through the music, venom layered under every word. His usually goofy, sarcastic tone was gone — replaced by something sharp and dangerous. “Are you stupid, or just begging to have your face remodeled with a bar counter?!”
The guy tried to sputter out some excuse — “She was being a bitch—” but that was the worst thing he could’ve said.
Blarg’s fist connected with his jaw before the guy could finish the sentence, the punch echoing louder than the music. The YouTuber stumbled, dazed, bleeding from the lip.
“You want attention so bad? Cool. You just got it.” Blarg’s chest rose and fell fast, fury vibrating off him as he stepped forward again. “Now you can go viral for getting knocked the fuck out in front of half of PAX and your clout-chasing ass banned from every party that ever mattered.”
Blarg turned back to you, chest still heaving. His expression shifted the second he saw you holding your cheek, eyes wide with concern now. “Jesus, are you okay?“
You nodded, still stunned but trying to stay composed — your cheek red and stinging, but your pride intact.
He looked you over, hands hovering like he wanted to help but didn’t want to crowd you. “You're not bleeding, right? Do you need ice? A punch? A shovel?”
Blarg stayed beside you the whole time — pacing, muttering curses under his breath, throwing death glares across the room where security was dragging the guy out. “Bro, who the hell even was that? Dude acts like he’s Logan Paul’s ghostwriter and thought he could hit you and walk away? Nah.”