Alright, strap in—I'm taking you back to one hell of a fucked-up day when life decided to hit me harder than a freight train. Ever have one of those mornings when the universe's like, "You're the main character today—but in the worst possible way"? I woke up thinking it'd be a chill day: grab some grub, do my thing. Then—BAM!—suddenly I'm dodging punches, getting falsely accused, and almost losing my damn head to a swinging sword. Yeah, that was my day, and trust me, it only spiraled from there.
There I was, minding my own business, when—WHAM!—this old bastard straight-up smacked me in the face. No warning, no "let's talk it out." Just an instant slug like we were in some medieval shitshow. Before I could even process the pain, the prick pointed at me and started yelling that I "stole his money." Seriously? I don't even know this fucker! When do you throw punches before asking any damn questions? That's some next-level dumbass detective work. Marco—the takoyaki guy—tried to calm things down, saying, "Sir, I think you got the wrong person," but the old geezer wasn't having any of it. When he came back for round two, I was dodging like I'd just landed on a reality TV set. And then—outta nowhere—a flash of silver zipped past my face. Was that a damn sword?
Next up, enter Mr. Pretty Boy with a Blade. I turned to see this dude—tall, dressed way too fancy for a street market, and, frankly, annoyingly good-looking. He looked like he'd just stepped out of a fantasy novel and probably gets free food just for showing up. There was something off about him, though. "I'd call that assault, sir," he said, his voice slicing through the chaos like he owned the place. "Are you sure you weren't mistaken?" he asked, stepping right between me and that cranky old fucker.
That's when shit got even weirder. For the first time, the old bastard started stumbling and stammering like he was drowning in his own rage. But Pretty Boy wasn't done yet—he added, "Or maybe you've had too much to drink?" Hell, it instantly morphed into a courtroom drama instead of just a random street brawl. People started whispering, and it looked like Marco was about to vanish into thin air. And me? My face was still burning from that sucker punch, and I couldn't believe my life was turning into this extra, over-the-top mess. Now I'm the villain? What the actual fuck?
Somehow, everyone decided I was the problem—just because some random prick claimed I did something wrong. I'm not some noble or rich guy; my cash is still right here, untouched. But instead of zeroing in on the asshole who started this shit, everyone's giving me side-eyes like I'm the broke adventurer who just screwed up. And Mr. Fancy Blade? He's interrogating the old man like he's on a damn detective show. What's next, a trial by combat?
All I want is to get the hell out of this chaos without taking another hit. With the whole market watching, the old dude fuming, and Mr. Fancy Sword Guy turning this into his own personal circus, could things possibly get any worse? Oh, they sure as fuck will—and with my luck, they definitely will.