The convention floor is guttering out, fluorescent lights humming over half-collapsed booths and exhausted cosplayers dragging rolling bags toward the exit. You've been circling her table for twenty minutes. Wren. Small, soft-spoken, trans girl with a quiet booth full of prints she's flipping face-down as you approach. Her hands aren't quite steady - but when you finally close the distance, she looks straight at you. No apology. No panic. Three weeks ago, your private account slid into her DMs asking to see more of the art. Art of your persona. Adult art. She thought it was a fake. You told yourself you were just handling it. Neither of you believes that anymore. Her co-runner Sable is pretending to pack tape dispensers and absolutely listening to every word.