Gingers Assemble

My goddamn luck.

I muttered, scrubbing my hair with the same intensity one might use to erase a regrettable life decision.

Hot shower? Useless.

Soap? Ineffective.

Because nothing—NOTHING—was gonna wash away the absolute clownery I just went through.

Alright, so picture this—I'm walking home, minding my own business, just trying to exist in peace. And then, bam.

Drunk lady. Passed the hell out on the sidewalk.

Not just tipsy. Not just "oops, I lost my balance." No. Full send. Face-down, mumbling like she was reciting the ancient language of the wasted.

Now, a regular guy? He's walking away. Maybe calls a cab. Maybe calls the cops. Maybe takes a video for content.

But me?

Of course not.

Because, lucky me, I recognise her.

Not personally. But from a parent-teacher meeting.

Yeah. Let that sink in.

This wasn't just some random lady. This was Misaki Gundou.

And if you don't know who that is, let me spell it out—she's Misuzu Gundou's mom.

Yes. That Misuzu. The human embodiment of sarcasm, hater energy, and zero faith in humanity. The girl who looks like she's permanently judging your entire existence.

And because my survival instincts are on par with a horror movie extra, I decided to do the responsible thing. Checked her ID. Hauled her home. Made sure she didn't die on the pavement.

Like an absolute idiot.

And you'd think, "Wow, Takashi, what a responsible young man. Surely, the universe rewarded you for your kindness?"

HAHA.

No.

Because instead of a heartfelt "thank you" and me walking off into the night like some mysterious legend, what did I get?

VOMITED ON.

Full-powered.

Point-blank range.

Right. On. Me.

I swear to God, she didn't just puke. She CHARGED that shit up like a Kamehameha.

And just when I thought it couldn't get worse?

She DROOLED.

On my other shoulder.

HOW?

How do you unleash hell on one side and still have the AUDACITY to drool on the other? That takes talent.

And honestly? If I had actually hooked up with her, at least I could say the mess was worth it.

But no.

Instead, I got the horror movie adaptation of what should've been a romcom.

I sighed.

Then sighed again.

Because apparently, sighing is my new personality now.

Life comes at you fast.

One moment, I'm out here saving a girl from getting assaulted, feeling like a goddamn hero. Like, cape-wearing, theme-music-having, slow-motion-walking kinda hero.

Next thing I know? I'm blackmailing some dude into unpaid labour.

Hey, don't look at me like that. It's called resourcefulness.

And now?

Now, I'm standing in the shower, covered in some middle-aged lady's bad life choices, contemplating every decision that led me here.

What a character arc.

And you know what? At this point, I wouldn't even be surprised.

Sometimes it feels like I'm trapped in some fanfiction written by a coffee-fueled psychopath who just throws me into the most bullshit scenarios possible for entertainment.

Like, come on. What are the odds?

I save a girl. Hero moment. Cool.

Then, less than 24 hours later? I'm carrying drunk moms and getting absolutely obliterated by projectile vomit.

What kind of plot progression is this?

Where's my badass training arc?

All I get is trauma and dry cleaning bills.

I stepped out of the bathroom, still rubbing a towel over my hair.

Oh. Clothes.

She left some out for me.

Nice. At least she had that much decency after ruining my night.

I picked them up.

Too big. Like, way too big.

Not Misaki's size, obviously. Probably her dad's or something.

Not my problem for one night. I threw them on and folded up the extra fabric like some budget tailor.

Then I heard it.

A voice.

Not Misaki's.

Someone else was here.

Did she call someone? 'Cause that voice definitely didn't sound like her mom.

I stepped into the room.

Red hair. Two of them.

One, I recognised instantly—tomboy Tomo Aizawa. Built like a tank, energy of a fired-up linebacker.

The other? Older. Same hair, same presence. More refined, but still carrying that "I can and will suplex you through a table" aura.

Her mother.

She crossed her arms, eyes narrowing as she sized me up. "Hey, brat, what are you zoning out for?"

I met her gaze, silent. Unmoving.

A second passed. Then two.

She didn't like that. I could tell. People like her expect reactions—flinching, stammering, some sign of weakness.

I could've played along. Put on a polite smile, acted like a decent houseguest.

But honestly? I wasn't in the mood.

Not after the night I just had. Not after getting bathed in someone else's regrets.

So I just stood there, arms loose, expression blank. Not hostile, not friendly. Just… there.

Tomo glanced at her mom, then at me. She felt the shift, that unspoken tension where someone expected a game and the other player just refused to pick up the controller.

"...Huh," her mom muttered, lips quirking, like she'd just spotted something interesting.

Before she could do whatever smug older people do when they think they've figured you out, the doorbell rang.

Perfect timing.

**********

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