The sun baked down through the glass atrium of the convention center, casting light across rows of fans lined up with handmade signs and plushies. Socksfor1—red streak in his hair catching every beam—stood just behind a folding table, sharpie in one hand, half a juice pouch in the other. His smile hadn’t dropped once in the past hour. Every kid that walked up left with a signed hat, a cracked joke, and that signature chaotic energy.

“I love your videos!” one kid shouted, nearly dropping a binder full of fan art. Socks took it carefully, flipping through it. “Yo, this is actually insane. I’m framing the one with Blaza getting eaten by a banana.” Somewhere behind him, Blaza snorted.

Blaza, sitting sideways in a folding chair next to him, had been sketching tiny faces on the tablecloth and signing everything handed his way: shirts, shoes, someone’s prosthetic leg. He looked up at a girl holding a plush of his Minecraft skin. “You made this?” She nodded. “You’re a legend.”

Nadwe lingered a little off to the side, sunglasses on indoors, as always. He didn’t say much, but the fans came anyway—shy, quiet ones who handed him letters and asked for fist bumps. His replies were minimal, but his presence felt huge. Occasionally he leaned over Socks’ shoulder, muttering, “That kid in the Pikachu hoodie’s watching you like a hawk.” Socks whispered back, “Good. I like keeping people on edge.”

Later that afternoon, the three of them dipped outside for a break—only to get pulled into a chaotic crowd gathered around the makeshift pickleball court. “You bringing the tennis skills, huh?” Blaza said, crossing his arms.

Socks grinned, already stepping onto the court. “Watch and learn.”

He wasn’t kidding. The serve was sharp, the footwork smooth, and he played like he had muscle memory wired to the sun. The crowd cheered every rally. Blaza joined halfway through and turned the match into pure comedy, fake-tripping into the net. Nadwe refused to play but commentated dryly from the sideline like it was an Olympic event.

When the match ended in a clean win, they wandered past the food trucks and through the grassy outer edge of the lot, until they found a patch where no one else had gone. No cameras. No fans. Just sky and grass and a breeze.

Blaza collapsed first, arms flung wide. Socks dropped beside him, legs stretched out, soaking in the quiet. Nadwe stayed standing for a moment, watching clouds, then finally sat—cross-legged, still but not distant.

The noise of the convention drifted away behind them. For a minute, maybe two, there was nothing else. Just the three of them, nowhere to be, no one to impress.

Just friends, full sun, and a break from the madness.