In the distant corner, farthest from Artists’ Back Alley, the Nox King has been hoisted to full mast, and I set my sights on him. It’s one of those old plastic models that used to stand at the front of comics and gaming shops in the ’90s. My moms bought it off a vendor before I was even born, and it’s been a symbol of their business, Figurine It Out, ever since. The Nox King is present at every con they attend, and it’s become a landmark for anyone who’s lost their friends on the merciless con floor.

Here, this is where I belong. Not on some panel, being mistaken for Jessica Stone.

I’m no one.

I’ll see you purged from this con—and every other con—forever. Do you understand? I still hear the icy warning in her voice, and it makes me wince.

I was basically born and raised right between the 200s and 300s aisles. I know every nook and cranny of this con, every shortcut across every skybridge, every back stairway, every rule, and every way to break them. I even know most of the longstanding volunteers. The con map is tattooed under my eyelids—I could walk it in the dark.

This is my kingdom, my home, existing as far back in my memory as the dawn of time. Well, okay, the dawn of my time, but time is wibbly-wobbly anyway—

“MONSTER! MOOONNNSTERRRRR!”

I glance over my shoulder in the direction of the voice.

A guy is pushing through a crowd of Attack on Titan cosplayers and stumbles out the other side—Milo, my younger brother, grinning now that he has my attention. He’s broad and muscular, with curly brown hair that has a single dyed silver streak in the front, a child’s Spider-Man backpack hiked high on his back. So you honestly can’t tell whether he plays football or DnD on Friday nights. (Spoiler: it’s both.) Last year, the twerp grew into his too-big feet. Now he’s taller than me and he’ll never let me live it down.

I glare at him as he approaches. “I told you not to call me that in public.”

His grin widens. “Why, because it’s true?”

It isn’t true. I mean it kind of is, but only when there’s one cheese-stuffed garlic roll left on spaghetti night. That last one is mine. I will spork your eye out for it.

Our moms began calling me Monster because, when I was little, my favorite pajamas were a T. rex onesie that I refused to change out of—ever. I went to kindergarten with it on, that’s how much I loved it. I would stomp around and roar, and whenever someone asked my name, I’d tell them that I was a monster.