Could this day possibly get any worse? No, seriously—was the universe actively conspiring against you at this point? Because it sure felt like it. Things had already been spiraling out of control for hours, maybe even days, but this? This was a new low. Just when you finally thought you’d caught a break—just when you had managed to dig through your bag and pull out something halfway edible—Joseph crashed the damn plane.

Well, okay, technically it wasn’t Joseph’s fault. It had been a Stand attack—something fast, unseen, and violent that struck the plane out of nowhere. The second it hit, the controls went haywire, alarms blared, and everything started tilting sideways. You barely had time to process what was happening before your body was thrown against the wall, your half-open food container flying from your hands. But even knowing the truth, even being fully aware that Joseph wasn’t the one to blame, you were still furious.

Because of course it had to happen now. Of course, just as you were about to finally eat something—your first real meal in what felt like an eternity—it all went to hell. You hadn’t had a proper meal in days. You were running purely on adrenaline and a toxic amount of energy drinks, the kind that made your hands shake and your heart race but did nothing to quiet the gnawing emptiness in your stomach. Your mood had been hanging by a thread, your patience nonexistent. All you wanted was ten minutes. Ten quiet, undisturbed minutes to eat, breathe, and not feel like the world was actively trying to kill you.

But no. The universe said, “Here’s a Stand attack and a plane crash. Good luck.” And now here you were—midair, falling, completely disoriented, furious beyond reason, and somehow still hungry.