Chapter 1: A Taste of Misfortune

Kaelan Wynn balanced a tray of plated entrees with the ease of a man who had done this for years–not two weeks. Every step was measured, every pivot smooth as he maneuvered through the crowded, candle-lit restaurant. The scent of seared filet mignon and truffle risotto clung to the air, mingling with the low hum of jazz filtering from hidden speakers.

He reached Table 14, where a man in a crisp navy suit sat across from his date, a woman who looked as if she had stepped straight out of a designer ad–polished nails, diamonds on her wrist, the kind of expression that suggested she had never heard the word no in her life.

Kaelan set their plates down with a practiced smile. "Here we are. Wagyu sirloin with garlic confit, and for you, ma'am, the–"

"Oh my god," the woman gasped, recoiling from her plate as if it had personally insulted her.

Kaelan blinked. "Is something wrong?"

She jabbed a manicured finger at the dish, her voice sharpening. "There's a hair in my food."

He hesitated. He had double-checked the plates before bringing them out. But sure enough, a single dark strand curled against the pristine white of her plate. It was too long to be his–his hair barely reached his ears.

"I am so sorry about that." He reached for the plate. "I'll get you a fresh–"

"No." The man across from her cut in smoothly, leaning back in his chair. "This is unacceptable." His eyes, a cold steel blue, flicked over Kaelan with slow scrutiny. "A restaurant of this caliber should have higher hygiene standards. My date could have eaten that."

Kaelan kept his voice even. "I understand. We'll have a new plate out right away."

"That's not good enough." The woman pushed her plate forward, her lips curving downward. "We should be compensated for this."

A free meal. There it is. Kaelan had seen this scam before–people who planted things in their food just to score a discount.

He clasped his hands together, still polite. "I can certainly let the owner know, but our policy–"

"Our policy?" The man's voice dropped to a dangerous low, meant to humiliate. "You think I care about your policy? We're paying top dollar for this meal, and you expect us to just accept this? You must be joking."

Kaelan inhaled slowly. "I completely understand your frustration–"

"Do you?" the woman cut in, eyes narrowing. "Because I don't think you do. I think you're trying to brush us off." She turned toward another table. "Do you hear this? This waiter doesn't care that there's a health hazard in my food."

A few nearby diners glanced over, some curious, others looking away as if pretending not to notice.

Kaelan suppressed the urge to rub his temples. He had read somewhere that the key to diffusing conflict was mirroring emotions–if someone was angry, acknowledge their anger, meet them where they were emotionally.

So he softened his tone, looking directly at them. "I hear your concern. Let me get the owner, and we'll–"

The man scoffed. "You know what? Forget it. If this is the kind of service we're getting, we'll just take our business elsewhere."

Kaelan tensed as the man waved down another server–one of the newer hires, looking panicked as he approached. Before the poor guy could speak, the woman's voice rang through the air:

"We want to speak to the owner."

Kaelan kept his posture neutral, but internally, he sighed. The last thing he wanted was for this to escalate further.

The owner, Mr. Delacroix, arrived within seconds–an older man with sharp features and a presence that commanded respect. His gaze flickered from Kaelan to the couple, taking in the scene with the tired patience of someone who had seen too much.

The man in the suit squared his shoulders. "We found a hair in the food." He gestured at the plate. "And instead of making it right, your waiter gave us attitude."

Kaelan said nothing.

Mr. Delacroix looked at the plate, then at the couple, his face unreadable.

Then, to Kaelan's surprise, he simply placed a hand on his shoulder and said, "Let me handle this, Kaelan."

Kaelan gave a small nod and stepped back.

The last thing he heard before walking away was the owner's smooth, deliberate voice:

"Now, let's talk about that hair you brought with you."

…

The night air outside the restaurant was thick with the lingering scent of grilled meat, car exhaust, and the distant hint of rain on concrete. Kaelan leaned against the brick wall of the alley behind the restaurant, a half-burned cigarette dangling between his fingers.

"You ever wonder if some people wake up and just decide to be awful?" Vincent exhaled a long trail of smoke, watching it disappear into the night sky.

Michelle, standing between them, let out a dry chuckle. "Oh, definitely. Some of these customers treat us like NPCs in their personal little power fantasy." She took a slow drag before turning to Kaelan. "How you holding up?"

Kaelan glanced at her, then at the glowing tip of his cigarette. He forced a small smile. "It's okay. Still my second week, after all."

Vincent scoffed. "Still? Man, you've only been here two weeks and somehow managed to get some of the worst customers I've ever seen." He took another drag, shaking his head. "That's, like, statistically insane."

"Yeah." Michelle flicked the ash off her cigarette. "I've been here four months, and I don't think I've had half the crap you've dealt with."

TJ, who had been scrolling through his phone, finally chimed in. "Now that I think about it... ever since you got hired, I haven't had a single bad customer." He tilted his head, eyes narrowing. "Actually, none of us have."

Vincent and Michelle exchanged glances before nodding.

"Damn," Vincent muttered. "It's like all the bad luck just–"

"–funneled straight into you." Michelle finished for him, smirking.

Kaelan sighed, taking a deep drag. "It's my life, guys."

TJ snapped his fingers. "That's it! You're like a sponge–absorbing all the restaurant's bad luck so the rest of us don't have to deal with it."

Vincent laughed. "Shit, we should be paying you."

Michelle grinned, tapping Kaelan's shoulder. "Maybe your suffering is the only reason we're thriving."

Kaelan rolled his eyes but couldn't help chuckling. "Glad my misery is so useful to you all."

They all shared a laugh, the exhaustion of the shift melting away in the cold night air.

Somewhere in the distance, thunder rumbled.

The city night stretched ahead of them, dim lights reflecting off the damp pavement, giving everything a hazy glow. Kaelan and Michelle walked side by side, their steps in sync as they cut through the quiet streets. The restaurant had closed an hour ago, and now the world felt calmer–just the occasional car passing by and the sound of their footsteps on concrete.

Michelle adjusted the strap of her bag. "So," she started, "why'd you take this job? I mean, this place is kinda fancy. Feels random."

Kaelan chuckled. "Honestly? Lucky encounter, really."

Michelle shot him a skeptical look. "Lucky?"

"Yeah, believe it or not." He stuffed his hands into his jacket pockets. "I used to work as a cashier at that little bookstore down the street. The owner, Mr. Delacroix, would drop by sometimes. One day, he offered me this gig. I guess he took pity on me."

"Pity?" Michelle raised an eyebrow.

Kaelan hesitated before giving a small shrug. "Well, y'know… orphan. No family. No one else."

Michelle slowed her steps. "Wait. You're an orphan?"

"Yeah. Born and raised in the grand system of foster homes." He tried to keep his tone light.

Michelle frowned. "Shit. I didn't know. I'm sorry."

He waved it off. "It's alright."

They walked in silence for a bit, the distant hum of the city filling the gap. Then, Michelle spoke up again.

"Y'know, when my dad died a few years ago, I had a real hard time dealing with it," she admitted. "Didn't know what to do with all the emotions, so I started writing a diary. But not just like, random journaling–I wrote it to him. Like letters. I'd tell him about my day, about stupid little things. And somehow… it helped."

Kaelan glanced at her.

"Maybe writing something like that could help you, too."

He thought about it for a moment, then offered her a small smile. "I'll try it."

And right then, he stepped on something soft.

A distinct squelch echoed in the quiet night.

Kaelan froze. Looked down.

"Aw, man. Again?"

Michelle took one look and gagged. "Ewwww."

She immediately stepped away as Kaelan groaned, lifting his shoe to assess the damage.

"You've gotta be kidding me," he muttered.

Michelle burst out laughing. "Dude, I swear, the universe hates you."

Kaelan sighed. "Yeah, tell me something I don't know."

They kept walking, Michelle still giggling as Kaelan muttered about cosmic cruelty, leaving behind a faint trail of dog poop in his wake.

…

The small apartment was quiet save for the soft scratching of pen on paper.

Kaelan sat at his tiny desk, hunched over an open notebook. Michelle's words from earlier played in his mind as he tapped the pen against the page. Then, finally, he started writing.

Dear Father and Mother,

Hi. I don't know where to start. Never really knew how to talk to you. Honestly, I always imagined how I'd call you–Mom? Dad? Or something else?

I guess I'm okay. The movies are great. They fill this weird, empty spot in me, like a stand-in for something I never had. Sorry, ehe.

His pen hovered for a moment before he continued.

You know, my life is kinda weird. It's like… I was born with some cosmic joke attached to my name. Every little thing goes wrong. I step in dog crap way too often. I always get splashed by cars when it rains. One time, I got locked inside a public restroom because the handle just… fell off in my hands.

Kaelan exhaled through his nose, shaking his head.

Do I have a sister? A brother?

I hope they're with you. I hope they can hug you when they're scared. I hope they got a better hand in life than me.

A drop of water hit the page, smudging the ink.

He blinked. Oh.

He hadn't realized he was crying.

I don't resent you. Unlike the orphans in the movies, I don't feel angry. I know you had your reasons, and I bet they were good ones.

Or maybe… I was just the unlucky one.

He wiped his eyes and let out a small, shaky laugh.

"God, this is depressing," he muttered to himself, closing the notebook.

And with that, he turned off the lamp and went to bed.

…

Sunday. No work. A sacred day of doing absolutely nothing.

Kaelan sat cross-legged on the floor, folding laundry while watching One Piece on his tiny secondhand TV. A steaming cup of instant coffee sat beside him, untouched and going cold.

The screen lit up with one of the greatest moments in anime history.

Zoro, bloodied and battered, took on all of Luffy's pain in Thriller Bark. And when Sanji found him afterward, standing in a pool of his own blood, all he said was:

"Nothing happened."

Kaelan threw his hands up. "Oh my god."

He grabbed his shirt mid-fold, shaking it dramatically. "Luffy, I'm sorry, man, I know you're the MC, but Zoro just stole my soul with that scene."

The episode ended.

Kaelan's eye twitched.

"…Wait. Wait, wait, wait. You can't just end it like that!" He lunged forward, grabbing the sides of the TV screen as if he could physically shake more content out of it. "Make it four hours per episode, damn it!"

With a groan, he flopped backward onto his bed, staring at the ceiling.

The world outside his window was quiet, save for the occasional sound of a distant siren.

Then–

A low, growing roar. Kaelan frowned. He sat up, turning his head toward the window. Somewhere outside, people were shouting.

And then–

A shadow loomed over the buildings. His eyes widened.

A plane.

Falling.

The metal hulk of an airliner hurtled through the sky, smoke trailing from its broken engines. It was coming straight for him. His breath hitched. He couldn't move. Couldn't even think.

"What the f–"

And then–

Impact.

A blinding flash. A deafening roar.

And Kaelan Wynn, unlucky until the very end, was no more.