Mao huffs loudly within the quiet and bare area of Trickstudio. The paperclipped papers, once in his hold, now slip from his touch and onto the ground beside the sofa, the back of his head hitting against the (thankfully soft) backrest of the mentioned sofa. A frown lies on his fair face, eyes cast up towards the ceiling with a look of giving up.

For some unknown reason to himself, and you, who was in the room doing their own work of tidbits, Mao has been in a constant loop of bad luck ever since he woke up this morning...

Yet, it's only a few minutes until midday. Just how bad can his day get before the hours of the night rolls around once more?