The Weight of Attention The New World of SwapTech chapter 5 by deleted_user

The platform lowered Jonas into the convention hall like a stage entrance he hadn't asked for.

The first thing he noticed was the sound. The ambient hum of thousands of conversations seemed to stutter, then shift, as heads turned in his direction. Camera phones rose like a tide. A guy in a green lantern t-shirt actually stopped mid-bite of his hot dog, mouth hanging open.

Jonas took a step forward, and the crowd seemed to part around him—not out of respect, but out of hunger. Eyes traced the lines of his body like they had a right to.

They're looking at me like I'm a piece of meat.

"Holy shit, it's Power Girl!" someone shouted.

"Bro, the accuracy—"

"Get a photo, get a photo!"

The first person to approach was a heavyset man in his thirties, wearing a stained Superman shirt and holding a professional camera. He didn't ask. He just raised the lens and fired off three shots before Jonas could blink.

"Hey—" Jonas started, but his voice came out wrong, that smoky alto carrying in a way that only drew more attention.

"Amazing cosplay," the man said, lowering the camera. His eyes dropped to the boob window—the massive, circular cutout that left the sides of his chest covered but the front completely exposed, showing the deep valley of his cleavage and the lower curve of each breast. "Really nailed the details."

He's staring at my tits. He's literally staring at my tits. Jonas felt a flush of heat that wasn't arousal. It was shame. No, it's anger. "Thanks," he forced out, already stepping past.

He didn't get far.

A group of three guys in their early twenties blocked his path. One of them—wearing a Deadpool hoodie—grinned and held up his phone. "Yo, Power Girl! Can we get a pic?"

Jonas hesitated. This was normal, right? People took photos at cons. He'd taken photos of cosplayers before. He'd been one of these guys, excited and awkward, asking for a picture.

But I never looked at them like this.

"Sure," he said, because he didn't know how to say no.

Deadpool gestured for him to pose, and Jonas awkwardly put his hands on his hips—the classic Power Girl stance. The three guys crowded in around him, pressing closer than they needed to. One of them put his hand on Jonas's bare shoulder. Another stood behind him, close enough that Jonas could feel his breath on the back of his neck.

This is too close. This is—

The flash went off. Twice.

"Thanks, babe," Deadpool said, and they were gone, already scrolling through the photos, probably zooming in on his chest.

Jonas stood there, frozen, his skin crawling where they'd touched him.

That's what that feels like.

He started walking again, faster now, trying to find a less crowded area. But the convention center was a maze of bodies, and every step seemed to draw more attention. A woman in a Wonder Woman costume gave him a sympathetic look as he passed, but she was swept away by her own group before he could say anything.

A guy in a My Hero Academia hoodie fell into step beside him. "Hey, great costume. You look exactly like her." His eyes dropped to the boob window. "Exactly."

"Thanks," Jonas said, not slowing.

"You want to grab a drink later? There's a bar across the street—"

"No."

"I'm just saying, you're really impressive, and I thought maybe we could—"

Jonas stopped walking and turned to face him. The guy was shorter than him—the Power Girl body was six feet of sculpted muscle—and for a moment, Jonas saw the guy's confidence flicker.

"I said no," Jonas repeated. His voice came out flat, cold. He didn't have to force it.

The guy raised his hands and backed off. "Okay, okay. No need to get hostile."

Jonas watched him disappear into the crowd, then leaned against a nearby pillar, letting out a shaky breath.

I've been on this floor for ten minutes. Ten minutes. And I already hate this.

He looked down at himself. The white leotard. The impossibly large breasts spilling out of the circular cutout. The cape. The thigh-high red boots.

I'm dressed like a fantasy. I'm dressed for other people's eyes.

And for the first time, he understood what it meant to be seen the way women are seen—not as a person, but as a display.