"Ha ha ha ha!"
"My God—lightning strike your hair? Is that the new limited-edition creamy pasta look?"
"He looks like a walking garbage can!"
"And the way that sauce clung to his eyebrows? Honestly, that's avant-garde."
The cafeteria erupted in laughter.
Even Thompson's teammates were stunned.
They stared at their quarterback—drenched in alfredo and marinara—and fought the urge to laugh. Hard. But they didn't dare. Not yet.
Thompson's face was twisted in a grotesque rictus of humiliation and fury.
"Joren Joestar!"
He staggered back, swiping globs of cream and tomato sauce from his eyes. Shame and rage boiled in his chest, scorching away every shred of reason.
I'm going to kill you.
Like a bull goaded past breaking point, Thompson charged—blind, sauce-smeared, and roaring—straight at Joren.
But just as he lunged forward, Joren, expression blank, sidestepped one pace to the left.
Thompson's eyes widened. Too late. Momentum had already sealed his fate. His foot came down—right on a slick smear of bacon pasta that had somehow landed precisely where he'd step.
His balance vanished.
"Whoa—!"
He shot past Joren in a flailing, graceless slide, arms windmilling through the air as he desperately grabbed for anything to stop himself.
He caught nothing.
Still hurtling forward, Thompson plowed into a stainless-steel trolley stacked high with used trays and cutlery.
CLANG! CRASH!
The cart flipped. Plates, forks, and half-eaten lunches rained down in a spectacular avalanche of cafeteria debris.
Thompson lay motionless in the wreckage.
No one knew if he was unconscious—or just too humiliated to move.
For a heartbeat, the laughter died.
Then it came back—louder, wilder, more merciless than before.
Even his own teammates cracked. One doubled over, shoulders shaking; another clapped a hand over his mouth, tears streaming.
Joren sighed, surveyed the chaos with detached indifference, and turned to leave.
The crowd instinctively parted before him.
Wherever he walked, chatter faded into uneasy silence.
Not out of respect.
Out of fear.
As Joren disappeared through the cafeteria doors, Marcus stood frozen, eyes locked on the spot where he'd been.
"Did… did you see that?" someone whispered, voice hoarse.
"I saw it," Marcus breathed. "He didn't even touch him. Just stepped aside—and Thompson slipped. Again. Just like yesterday."
A cold shiver crawled up his spine.
Is this kid cursed?
Nearby, Peter Parker pushed through the lingering onlookers and knelt by the overturned trolley. He picked up a bent fork, turning it slowly in his fingers.
This wasn't just bent from impact. The metal was warped—like it had been twisted by something far stronger than a falling tray.
Frowning, Peter reached down and brushed a finger over the floor where Thompson had slipped.
Alfredo sauce. Slippery, sure—but the puddle was too perfect. Too convenient. Like it had been placed there… on purpose.
It happened right in front of Joren—a coincidence that felt almost premeditated.
A fan.
A paper napkin.
A teammate slipping on wet tile.
Spaghetti flying sideways through the air.
Thompson crashing into the lunch cart.
It all unfolded like a precisely calculated domino effect.
And the fork? That was the first domino.
Peter Parker glanced toward the cafeteria entrance again—but Joren was already gone.
This isn't a coincidence.
The laws of physics hadn't broken down. Someone had simply bent them in a way Peter couldn't begin to understand.
Joren Joestar…
---
Afternoon.
A new legend was being born at Midtown High.
"Have you heard what happened in the cafeteria?"
"I heard Thompson washed his hair with spaghetti!"
"New here? He tripped by himself—no one even touched him!"
"Of course it's the new guy! He's like a walking bad-luck charm! Yesterday it was Mr. Callahan's chair collapsing—today it's Thompson!"
"Shh! Don't say it out loud—he's coming."
In the hallway, Joren walked with his schoolbag slung over one shoulder, heading toward his classroom.
A three-meter vacuum zone formed around him.
Students edged away, eyes wide with a mix of awe and unease. No one pointed. No one whispered. Not anymore.
Joren slid into his seat—the last row, by the window.
Perfect.
Peace and quiet, at last.
He pulled out Introduction to Marine Biology and flipped to the next chapter.
---
"Quiet! Settle down!"
Mr. Harrington's voice cut through the post-lunch buzz. He tapped the podium, his expression grim.
"Tomorrow, the school's holding a mandatory social practice activity," he announced. "We're visiting Osborn Industries."
The room fell silent for a beat—then erupted.
"Osborn? As in Harry's family?!"
"Their tech is, like, decades ahead of everyone else!"
"We're actually going inside? No way!"
Joren paused mid-page.
Osborn Industries.
Group outing.
His brow furrowed beneath the shadow of his cap.
Trouble.
He hated crowds. Hated rigid schedules even more.
He was already mentally rehearsing how to ask Harrington for an exemption after class—when the teacher added, voice sharp:
"This opportunity is hard-won. Anyone who skips it loses participation credit. No exceptions."
Fine. I'll go.
---
Across the room, Peter Parker's head snapped up, eyes bright behind his glasses.
"Osborn Industries?" he whispered, barely containing his excitement. "Their cross-species genetics research is revolutionary. Dr. Norman Osborn is literally my idol!"
Mr. Harrington clapped his hands. "Be at the school gate tomorrow at nine sharp. No excuses!"
"I heard you!" the class chorused—most with enthusiasm.
Only Joren remained still, gaze drifting back to the page.
A full-page illustration of a sperm whale drifted across the ocean depths.
Tomorrow's going to be painfully boring.