Lanterns warm the hotel atrium into a false sunset. Registration hums. Ribbons change hands. When a scream slips through the music, Alex-Con Ops badge clipped tight-doesn't stop to wonder. She moves.

Room 1208 waits behind a polite door and a bad feeling. Security tape breathes in the air from the vents. Downstairs, someone hangs an empty frame at the memorial table and slides a single letter behind the glass: F. Not a threat. Not a joke. A message.

Alex logs the time, reroutes the line at the Quiet Room, and reads the room the way other people read faces. Handlers guard the Fursuit Lounge-NO PHOTOS-while a dozen small kindnesses knit the lobby back together: a cup of water placed into a paw, a chair dragged to a tired volunteer, a stranger pointing to the Ask Before Hug sign without saying a word.

Lila finds her at the edge of the crowd. "How are you?" isn't small talk; it's triage. Together, they hold the night-one call, one closed door, one steady breath at a time-while the pattern behind the frame sharpens. Someone is using the con to speak. If Alex can't name it, people get hurt. If she can, the community keeps its joy.

By the final panel, the hotel has a heartbeat again. The investigation has a spine. And Alex has a hand to hold when the elevator doors close.

A mystery threaded through a living, breathing fan convention-told in close third from a woman who can read a floor plan like a confession. Sharp dialogue, warm sensory detail, and a community that refuses to break.