"Hahahaha!"
"My God, Thompson! Is that the newest hairstyle? Limited-edition creamy pasta?"
"He looks like a walking trash can!"
"The sauce stuck in his eyebrows — it's avant-garde!"
The cafeteria detonated with laughter.
Thompson's teammates stood frozen, staring at their quarterback drenched in sauce. They wanted to laugh, tried not to laugh — their faces contorted into painful expressions.
"JOREN JOESTAR!"
Thompson staggered back, wiping cream and sauce from his eyes. Shame and rage fused into something volcanic.
"I'M GOING TO KILL YOU!"
Blinded by fury — and pasta — he charged like a wounded bull.
Just before he reached him—
Joren stepped one pace to the left.
Nothing more.
Thompson realized something was wrong and tried to halt, but momentum had already claimed him. His cleats landed squarely on the creamy sauce splattered across the tile.
Predictably—
His feet shot forward.
"WHOA—!"
He slid past Joren in a grotesque posture, arms windmilling for balance.
He grabbed for something.
Nothing.
Still sliding, Thompson slammed full force into a dish-collection trolley.
BANG! CLATTER!
The cart overturned.
Plates exploded across the floor.
Leftovers rained down.
Thompson landed amid shattered crockery and cold food scraps.
He didn't move.
Whether stunned by impact or paralyzed by humiliation was impossible to tell.
The cafeteria paused in stunned silence.
Then the laughter returned — louder, wilder, uncontrollable.
Even Thompson's teammates lost the battle.
One covered his mouth, shoulders shaking violently.
Joren exhaled softly, surveying the disaster, then turned toward the exit.
The crowd parted instinctively.
Where he walked, laughter softened into whispers.
It wasn't respect.
It was fear.
He left the cafeteria without looking back.
Behind him, Thompson's teammates scrambled to extract their fallen quarterback from the wreckage.
Marcus stared at Joren's departing figure.
"…Did you see that?"
One teammate swallowed.
"He didn't touch him."
"He just moved… then Thompson slipped… exactly like yesterday."
Marcus felt a cold shiver run down his spine.
Is this kid cursed?
Peter pushed through the dispersing crowd and picked up the fallen fork.
He examined it carefully.
This deformation wasn't consistent with a simple impact.
He crouched near the spot where Thompson had slipped and dipped his fingers into the residue.
Cream sauce.
Extremely slippery.
But its placement was too perfect.
Right in front of Joren.
As if positioned.
He replayed the sequence:
Fan acceleration.
Napkin obstruction.
Falling player.
Airborne pasta.
Sauce dispersion.
Vector shift.
Thompson's slip.
Cart collision.
A domino cascade.
Precise.
Predictable.
Engineered.
The first domino…
…was the fork.
Peter looked toward the cafeteria entrance.
Joren was gone.
This was not coincidence.
Physics had not failed.
Someone had used it with terrifying precision.
Joren Joestar.
By afternoon, a new legend had already spread across Midtown High.
"Did you hear about the cafeteria?"
"Thompson washed his hair with spaghetti!"
"The new guy didn't even touch him."
"He's terrifying. Wherever he goes, disasters happen."
"Stop talking — he's coming."
In the hallway, Joren walked toward class.
A three-meter vacuum formed around him.
Students stepped aside instinctively, their eyes filled with awe — and unease.
No one pointed anymore.
No one whispered loudly anymore.
He returned to his seat.
Last row. Window side.
Perfect.
He opened his bag and removed Introduction to Marine Biology, turning calmly to the next section.
Peace at last.
"Quiet! Quiet!"
Mr. Harrington's face remained storm-cloud grim as he pounded the podium.
"Tomorrow, the school will conduct a social practice activity."
"Attendance is mandatory."
He cleared his throat, projecting solemn importance.
"We will be visiting Oscorp Industries."
The classroom fell silent for a beat — then erupted.
"Oscorp? Harry's family company?!"
"I heard their tech is world-class!"
"We get to tour it?!"
Joren's page-turning hand paused.
Oscorp Industries.
Group activity.
His brow furrowed beneath the hat brim.
Trouble.
Crowds were troublesome.
Organized trips were worse.
He considered asking to be excused.
Harrington spoke again.
"This opportunity is rare. Anyone absent will lose academic credit."
…Understood.
At the other end of the classroom, Peter Parker looked up, eyes shining behind his glasses.
"Oscorp Industries," he whispered excitedly. "Their cross-species genetics research is revolutionary. Dr. Norman Osborn is a genius."
Harrington clapped his hands.
"Meet at the school gate at nine o'clock sharp. No lateness!"
"Yes!" came scattered replies.
Excitement buzzed through the room.
Only Joren returned to his book.
The page displayed a sperm whale drifting through deep ocean blue.
He found it far more appealing than tomorrow's itinerary.