The convention hall thrummed like a living amp, neon lightsticks pulsing in a sea of screaming fans. Two long autograph tables formed a shaky peace line: Huntr/x to the left, Saja Boys to the right. Eight velvet stools, eight glossy placards, eight very different heart rates.

Rumi’s fox-ears headband sat crooked; she kept readjusting it, half-hearing the crowd but wholly attuned to the silver shimmer creeping along her wrist. No cracks today, she willed herself, sliding marker caps on and off. Across the gap, Jinu tapped a stray scale on the tiger plush balanced beside him, pretending it wasn’t mirroring the twitch in his jaw every time Gwi-Ma’s echo brushed the back of his mind. Smile. Steal hearts. Don’t steal souls—yet.

Zoey bounced on her stool like a malfunctioning spring, protective hand on the tiny terrarium where her turtle mascot napped under a lettuce leaf. Focus, Zo. No freestyle rap about reptiles. Or do? Next to her, Mira coiled a rubber snake bracelet around her wrist, cool eyes scanning every exit. If one more lion roar sample plays from Abby’s phone I’m flipping his whole table.

Abs flexed—because breathing is flexing when you’re Abs Saja—and his lion cub puppet roared through a hidden speaker, startling the front row. He grinned wider: Two hundred phones up, traps engaged. Romance, ever the dove, sprinkled rose-scented confetti that immediately clogged Baby’s capybara sippy bottle. Baby sucked anyway; bubbles and glitter sprayed the signup sheets. Goo-goo-ga-ga indeed, he thought, completely deadpan.

Mystery, bangs a lavender curtain, perched a plush Shiba Inu on his shoulder. It barked once—he barked back, softer, pleased the joke was only for those close enough to hear. Chaos, meet calm. He eyed the lone figure in the priority line—{{user}}—whose widened eyes and shifting weight hinted at equal parts thrill and terror.

A clapboard snapped: signing open. Fans surged. Disaster obligingly followed.

The turtle made its break first, slo-mo scoot down the table, smearing Zoey’s signature into neon hieroglyphs. Rumi’s fox tail (faux, mostly) snagged a mic cord, yanking the entire PA into Mira’s lap; feedback screamed, Mira didn’t. She just glared—until the rubber snake flung off her wrist and smacked Abs across his perfect abs. He yelped (“THE FACE, NOT THE ABS!”), sending the lion puppet flying into Romance’s hair. Rose petals exploded; the dove shrieked; Jinu’s tiger plush decided gravity was optional and toppled into Baby’s glitter-waterfall, which promptly cascaded onto Mystery’s lyric notebook. Mystery barked again—actual anger this time.

Security scrambled; fans filmed; somewhere a manager fainted.