Arriving late on Wednesday turned out to be a blessing in disguise.
The crowd hadn't yet hit its full fever pitch, and Hank had slipped through the hotel lobby with minimal chaos. He could already feel the con energy simmering just beneath the surface… half the people inside were in costume or cosplay-inspired travel gear, and clusters of camera flashes still lit up the entrance behind him. But he had done enough for the day. His body was done. His eyes burned from highway fatigue and sunlight, his shoulders ached from the weight of his camera bag, and his back felt like it had been forged into the shape of the car seat after twenty hours of driving.
The moment he stepped into his hotel room, he let the door close slowly behind him with a quiet click. The room was simple but clean… two queen beds, white linen, cool grey walls, blackout curtains drawn halfway. A desk in the corner, a small flat-screen TV that he wouldn't use. It smelled faintly of lemon disinfectant and fresh air-conditioning. Hank dropped his bags to the floor, the gear making a dull thud as it hit the carpet, and he nearly collapsed onto the mattress, face-first.
"Fuck," he muttered into the sheets, eyes shut.
His body screamed for sleep. But he couldn't. Not yet.
He sat up slowly, rubbing his face with both hands, then let them fall into his lap. His shirt clung to him, damp with sweat from hours in the Southern California heat. His jeans felt stiff and heavy, and his skin itched from the long ride. He smelled like gas stations and sun-baked pavement.
Yeah… he needed a shower.
He peeled off his clothes one layer at a time, wincing as his back cracked from stretching. Socks hit the floor. His shirt, damp and wrinkled, was flung onto the chair. The cool tile floor of the bathroom felt like heaven beneath his feet as he stepped in. He turned on the water, twisting the dial to hot until steam began to curl from behind the curtain.
When he stepped under the stream, the first thing that hit him was the weight of it… like someone was pressing warm hands across his shoulders, easing the tension from every tired muscle. He let out a deep, slow sigh, tilting his head forward and letting the water pour down his back.
This. This was what he needed.
The water washed away the road dust, the sweat, the static of twenty hours of engine hum and caffeine and mental noise. He leaned into the wall, one arm against the tile, and just let himself breathe.
His mind wandered, unspooling slowly in the silence. Thoughts drifted like fog over quiet hills. And then… like a spark in the dark, her face appeared.
Yuna Mei.
Even just thinking her name sent a ripple through his chest.
He still couldn't fully wrap his head around it… he had met her. Not just seen her from a distance. Not just snapped a lucky candid. No. He had spoken with her. Photographed her. Laughed with her, even if only for a few moments. After years of following her online… scrolling through her flawless feeds, watching her cinematic TikToks, seeing her evolve into one of the most iconic Asian cosplayers in the scene… he had stood in front of her, camera in hand, heart thudding like a drum.
And she had been even more breathtaking in person.
She wore a modern kitsune ensemble that shimmered like something out of a dream. Red and gold silk clung perfectly to her body, hugging her curves with effortless grace. The hem of her robe swayed as she walked, catching the sunlight in brief, golden flashes. Her fox mask was pushed up onto her forehead, revealing a face that felt carved from porcelain and stardust… high cheekbones, soft pink lips, and eyes that glowed violet behind delicate lenses.
Tiny bells jingled at her hips as she moved, soft and hypnotic. The sleeves of her costume were hand-painted with delicate sakura blossoms that danced with every shift of her arms. Her thigh-high white stockings were laced with crimson ribbons, the kind of detail that only true artisans noticed. And Hank had noticed… everything.
But what had shaken him most… what had completely unmoored him, was that she'd spoken to him.
Actually spoken to him.
Her voice was soft but confident, smooth as silk and sweet as spring rain. There was a quiet strength in the way she carried herself, and when she looked into his eyes… really looked, it was like the world narrowed to just the two of them.
"You're Hank, right?" she'd asked, brushing a strand of her dark hair from her cheek, the bells at her hip chiming with the motion.
He'd nodded, his voice catching in his throat before he managed a quiet, "Yeah."
"I've seen your work online," she said, her tone light but sincere. "You make cosplay look... different. Real. Cinematic."
That alone could've stopped his heart.
But she kept talking… asking him about lighting setups, about how he liked to shoot in direct sun, about whether he preferred candid moments or posed shots. And she actually listened to his answers. Tilted her head slightly when he talked. Smiled when he mentioned how her costume's details caught the light perfectly, how the wind had made her hair move like it was choreographed.
"Do you have the photos already?" she'd asked, voice tinged with genuine curiosity. "I'd love to see how they turned out."
"I'll send them to you tonight," he'd said, fighting to keep his voice steady. "You looked…"
Perfect. He'd almost said it. But stopped himself.
"… Incredible," he finished, his camera still warm in his hands.
She had smiled then, the kind of smile that could light up entire cities. "Thank you, Hank."
Just his name. But the way she said it… soft, gentle, with meaning, had etched itself into his memory.
Now, standing in the quiet steam of the hotel bathroom, the hot water pouring over his skin, he could still hear her voice. Still see her eyes, framed by those violet lenses. Still smell the soft floral sweetness of her perfume clinging faintly to the edges of memory.
He had thought she would be a fantasy… unreachable, distant, made of pixels and perfection. But she'd been real. She'd spoken to him. Acknowledged his work. Trusted his eye.
And he wanted more.
Not just more pictures. More moments. A chance to really talk. To shoot somewhere quiet, somewhere creative. Just the two of them. No crowd. No chaos. Just art and possibility.
But that was for another day.
Tonight, he would let the memory of her voice lull him to sleep, warm and full of wonder.
And tomorrow… he'd be ready.
---
It was the middle of the night when the sirens pulled Hank from sleep like a slap of cold water.
He sat up, heart thudding, the room pulsing with strobing red and blue light. For a second, he didn't know where he was… his mind still tangled in dreams, his body wrapped in hotel sheets soaked with the heat of the day. The light seemed to breathe against the walls, shadows stretching and shifting across the ceiling like they were alive.
Then it hit him… San Diego. The twelfth floor. Comic-Con week.
He stumbled to the window, rubbing his face with both hands as he moved. The glass was cold beneath his palms. Outside, the world was chaos.
Police cars lined the street in a jagged semicircle of flashing light. Yellow light from streetlamps poured down like smoke. People stood frozen on the sidewalks, half-dressed or still in cosplay, drawn by the noise. A cluster of officers had formed behind their doors and cars, weapons drawn, yelling commands into the warm night air. But from twelve floors up, it was all just muffled echoes, like a war underwater.
Then Hank saw him… the source of the panic.
A man in dark clothes stood in the middle of the street, lit up like a stage actor under police spotlights. He held a woman tightly in one arm, the other hand gripping a long, gleaming sword pressed against her throat. She trembled in his grip, and though Hank couldn't hear her cry, he could see it in the way her shoulders shook. The man's face was twisted in rage, sweat gleaming off his bald head, lips moving with venom Hank couldn't decipher.
Without thinking, Hank reached for his camera. It was still on the nightstand, right where he'd left it, and his hands knew what to do before his brain caught up. He raised it, flicked the settings, and began to shoot.
Click.
Click.
Click.
His lens zeroed in on the man's wild eyes, the silver edge of the blade, the terrified tilt of the girl's chin. Every frame felt like a frozen scream.
Then… everything exploded.
The girl moved. Lightning-fast.
She brought her knee up, hard, between the man's legs. His scream echoed up the buildings even twelve stories high. She tore away from him like a streak of lightning, stumbling forward and then sprinting. The sword clattered to the asphalt as the man let out a final roar and reached to grab her…
Pop. Pop. Pop.
Three flashes. Three shots. Muzzle bursts from the officers, then silence.
Hank captured it all.
The moment the man was hit… mid-scream, mid-lunge, caught in that impossible instant of violence and gravity. His chest snapped backward with the impact. Blood sprayed against the concrete. His knees buckled, and he crumpled like a puppet with its strings cut.
"Fuck," Hank whispered, lowering the camera slightly, his eyes wide, his mouth dry.
He looked down at the playback on the small screen. The image was sharp, brutal, undeniable. The kind of photo that would make headlines. The kind that haunted people.
And then… he saw her.
Not the girl who had escaped.
Someone else.
She stood a few feet beyond the chaos, right at the edge of the scene, where the shadows swallowed the sidewalk. Watching.
She wasn't crying. She wasn't panicked. She was... calm. Still.
A Goth Elf.
Hank froze.
She looked like she had stepped out of a myth… tall, otherworldly, a creature of moonlight and dark velvet. Her skin was porcelain pale, glowing faintly under the flickering light. She wore a tight black bodice laced up with silver thread, snug around her waist and cut low at the chest, revealing just enough to be dangerous. A deep plum skirt split high on one thigh, revealing long, perfect legs encased in black stockings with intricate spiderweb lace near the top. Her boots were high-heeled, glossy, and heavy-soled, made for stomping or seduction… maybe both.
Her hair was long, wild, and impossibly beautiful… a flowing cascade of snow-white silk streaked with deep, blood-red stripes that ran like ribbons of fire through a winter storm. It spilled down her back and over one shoulder in waves so soft they looked like smoke made tangible. The contrast was hypnotic, the red sharp and deliberate, like war paint for a fallen angel. Her ears, long and elegantly pointed, were adorned with silver cuffs and dangling black crystals that caught the streetlight with each subtle movement. Around her throat sat a choker… black velvet, snug against her pale skin, with a teardrop obsidian pendant hanging from its center. It didn't reflect light. It swallowed it, like a shard of midnight pinned to her heart.
But it was her eyes that undid him.
Jet black, rimmed in shadowed makeup, her irises a deep violet-gray that shimmered with something unreadable. They locked onto his, through the glass, twelve floors up… like she had been waiting for him to look.
Hank didn't move.
She saw him.
She knew he was watching.
And then… she smiled.
Slow. Seductive. Dangerous.
And winked.
Hank snapped out of it, yanked his camera up again and fired off three quick shots, trying to capture her before she vanished into the night.
Click.
Click.
Click.
But it was already too late.
She turned with the effortless grace of a panther, her skirt swaying as she moved, heels clicking softly as she walked away from the scene like it didn't concern her. The officers, now rushing toward the body and the frightened girl, didn't notice her. None of them even glanced her way.
It was like she wasn't even there.
But Hank had seen her. And she'd seen him.
The street filled with voices, movement, the distant cry of an ambulance siren. But all Hank could think about was her.
He didn't know her name. He'd never seen her on Instagram, TikTok… anywhere. But he had to find her. Something about her… her presence, her confidence, her beauty so sharp it bordered on cruel, it burned into him like a fever.
He looked down at his camera screen again, heart pounding.
The last image: her, standing in shadow, looking up at him with that wicked little smile.
She had disappeared.
But now?
He was going to find her.
---
Hours later, Hank woke with a start.
For a moment, he just stared at the ceiling, blinking against the pale wash of early morning light slipping through the edges of the blackout curtains. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of the AC. He turned to look at the clock on the nightstand. Three hours until the convention doors opened.
A pulse of nervous energy fluttered through him… half adrenaline, half anticipation.
He dragged himself out of bed and stumbled into the bathroom. The cold tile greeted his bare feet like a slap. He flicked on the light, turned the shower knob toward hot, and while steam began to rise, he handled the less glamorous part of the morning… relieving the pressure from too many energy drinks the day before.
Then, finally, he stepped into the shower, and the hot water hit him like a reset button. He let it pour down over his face, soaking his hair, trailing down his back in rivulets. With his eyes closed and forehead pressed gently to the tile wall, his thoughts drifted again.
Four days. That's what lay ahead. Four long, chaotic, glorious days.
Thousands of photos.
Hundreds of cosplayers.
Conversations. Laughs. Hopefully a few real connections.
He smirked to himself. If I'm lucky, maybe I even make a little money. There were always publications looking for con coverage… lifestyle blogs, local event mags, pop culture outlets. Hell, even some indie authors were always hunting for the perfect image for their next book cover. Especially fantasy, sci-fi, and paranormal romance writers. Cosplay shots? That was gold… if you had permission.
I'll need a model release form, he thought, mentally filing it away. Something quick and easy but professional. Maybe a digital version, something he could pull up on a tablet or even his phone. And it had to be fair… cosplayers deserved a cut if he sold the image. He didn't want to be "that guy" who exploited others' creativity.
This could be more than just a weekend hustle. This could be the start of something real.
By the time he stepped out of the shower, towel wrapped around his waist, he felt like a new man. Rested. Sharp. Focused.
He walked into the hotel room and sat down in front of his laptop, fingers already moving before his mind fully caught up. He connected the camera via USB-C, the memory card humming to life, and began transferring the photos to his hard drive. As the folders populated, he opened his cloud backup service and synced the transfer, watching image after image flash across the screen.
And there they were.
Dozens of them.
Cosplayers in every color, shape, and fandom. Smiling, fierce, soft, seductive. Each one frozen in time, art in motion. He smiled to himself, recognizing faces he'd only seen online before, now captured forever in his lens.
But then… they appeared.
The night shots.
He sat up straighter, his breath catching slightly in his throat.
The Goth Elf.
He'd forgotten… how could he have forgotten? There she was, backlit by sirens, her long white hair streaked with crimson ribbons like threads of blood in moonlight. The image was stunning. Haunting. She was otherworldly… standing still in the chaos, her dark eyes looking directly into the lens like she knew it was watching her.
His finger hovered over the touchpad as the images kept loading.
And then came those photos.
The shooting.
The moment the man raised his sword. The girl kicking him. The instant the bullets struck.
He had captured all of it… frame by frame. The final expression on the attacker's face. The spray of blood. The body collapsing.
Hank swallowed hard, heart thudding.
He muttered aloud, "Fuck…" and leaned back in his chair, staring at the screen.
It was… gold. Maybe the biggest photojournalistic moment of his life.
But also dangerous. Raw. Possibly controversial. Was it even legal to share something like this?
He reached for his phone, tapped his uncle's contact, and hit call.
The line rang once before a familiar, sarcastic voice picked up.
"Hank! Tell me you've already hooked up with some cosplay bombshell. That's the point of these things, right?"
Hank huffed a short laugh. "Not yet. But I did catch something. Not what you're expecting."
"Oh?"
"I, uh... I took some pictures last night. Something went down outside the hotel. Cops were involved."
"What kind of something?"
So Hank told him. Everything… almost. He recounted the sirens, the man with the sword, the hostage, the police. The photos. The shooting. But he left out the part about her. The Goth Elf. That part felt... different. Like a secret he wasn't ready to share.
When he finished, there was a pause.
"Holy hell, Hank," his uncle finally said, sounding equal parts impressed and stunned. "You just got there."
"Yeah," Hank muttered, dragging a hand through his damp hair. "Frickin' California, man."
His uncle laughed. "You're not wrong. Listen… send me the pictures. I'll forward them to one of the local stations under my name, tell them one of my freelancers got lucky. I'll make sure you get paid for it."
"That'd be great," Hank said. "Thanks, Uncle."
"Oh, and by the way," his uncle added, almost as an afterthought, "Tiffany's been asking about you."
Hank blinked. "Tiffany?"
"Yeah. Apparently you're a bit of a celebrity right now. She follows a bunch of makeup artists and cosplay influencers… some of 'em are there at the con. A couple already posted your shots and tagged you. Said they can't wait to see the rest."
Hank raised an eyebrow. "Wait, seriously?"
"Dead serious. Your Instagram's blowing up. You might wanna check your notifications before they crash your phone."
A slow smile pulled at the corner of Hank's mouth. "And we haven't even started the convention yet."
"Welcome to the big leagues, kid," his uncle said with a chuckle. "Send those files. And stay out of trouble."
They exchanged goodbyes, and Hank returned to the laptop. He selected the most powerful images… cleaned up the lighting just slightly, touched up contrast… and sent them off in a folder labeled SDCC_Incident_1_HK.
Then he leaned back and exhaled.
His inbox was filling. His notifications were stacking. His name was out there.
And somewhere… maybe among the crowd, maybe watching from the shadows, she was out there too.
The Goth Elf.
And he would find her, he just had to, he could not get her out of his head.