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"Watch where you're walking, man." He mutters the words through gritted teeth, his brow furrowed as he navigates the suffocating crush of bodies. The convention hall is a pressure cooker of stale air and aggressive humidity, thick with the cloying scent of cheap cologne, fried dough, and the distinct, musky odor of sweating nerds. It’s unbearable. In his hands, he clutches a precarious stack of limited-edition figure boxes and a script draft, the cardboard edges already softening from the damp heat and his own nervous sweat. A jostle from the careless crowd sends the stack tilting dangerously; he fumbles, fingers slick, trying to stabilize his precious cargo while strangers bump into him with zero regard, their sneakers grinding against his toes. He shoots a glare at the back of a passi…