Tomas considered himself the human embodiment of bad luck. It wasn't that he didn't try—he tried really hard—but the universe had made him its personal target for torment. If there was a wrong decision to make, an accident waiting to happen, or the slightest chance of things going sideways, Tomas could count on being in the center of it all.

The day began like any other, with Tomas waking up to the smell of smoke. The toaster, that ancient relic he'd picked up from a yard sale, had caught fire. Again.

"Seriously?" he groaned, jumping out of bed, scrambling to the kitchen, and frantically yanking the plug from the wall. The tiny kitchen filled with smoke, and Tomas grabbed the fire extinguisher—a habit he'd developed after the third fire that month—and sprayed until the flames died out. The loaf of bread nearby, charred beyond recognition, crumbled when he poked it with the end of a fork.

Breakfast, like everything else in his life, was a disaster.

He hurried through his morning routine, though "routine" was a generous word for what Tomas had to endure daily. His shower ran out of hot water exactly 30 seconds after he turned it on. His toothbrush snapped in half midway through brushing, and as he pulled on his wrinkled work shirt—he hadn't had time to iron it—he noticed the ominous tear under the armpit.

It was only 8:30 a.m., and Tomas was already considering calling in sick.

But he couldn't. He was three months behind on rent, and his landlord, Mr. Gruff, had taken up sending him eviction notices as a daily reminder that his time was running out. One more missed payment, and Tomas would be out on the street.

As he left his shabby apartment, things only got worse. He tripped—again—on the single step just outside his door. That cursed step had nearly cost him his ankle at least five times, but no matter how many times he told himself to be careful, he always managed to stumble over it.

He staggered down the street, his left shoe already feeling loose. A few blocks later, it completely gave up, the sole flapping uselessly as he walked. He sighed, resigning himself to walking awkwardly the rest of the way. He had no money for new shoes, not after the incident last week when a stray dog had chased him into the lake and ruined his last pair.

By the time Tomas reached the bus stop, the bus had already left—five minutes early, as usual. He could've sworn the drivers had a personal vendetta against him. Missing the bus because he was late he could accept but this....this was just another level of unlucky. Sighing in defeat, he decided to walk the rest of the way to work.

The rain started almost immediately.

"Of course," Tomas muttered, as if he'd expected nothing less. He pulled his jacket tighter around himself, but it was no use. The rain seemed to target him specifically, soaking him to the bone in a matter of minutes.

When he finally arrived at his office—a beige, soul-sucking cube farm—he was greeted by his boss's voice, dripping with disdain.

"You're late, Tomas."

"I—I missed the bus," Tomas stammered, trying to shake the water from his hair.

"You're always late. One more time, and you're fired."

Tomas gave a half-hearted nod, though the thought of getting fired seemed more like a blessing than a punishment. He slumped into his desk chair, staring at the endless spreadsheets on his screen, feeling the weight of his miserable existence bear down on him like a boulder.

But fate wasn't done with Tomas yet. As the hours dragged on, he made his usual mistakes—sending the wrong file to a client, knocking over his coffee cup, spilling half of it into his keyboard, and accidentally deleting the document he'd spent the entire day working on. The IT department had long since given up on trying to help him.

At this point, it seemed the only reason they hadn't fired him, despite his endless stream of mistakes, was because keeping him around gave them the daily pleasure of watching his misery unfold.

By lunchtime, Tomas had resigned himself to a quick bite at the greasy fast-food joint across the street. But when he finally got there, they were out of the one thing he liked on the menu. It figured.

Back at the office, he sat quietly at his desk, staring blankly at the screen, when he felt a faint itch on his arm. He absently swatted at it, thinking it was nothing more than a common bug bite. But the itch persisted, spreading across his skin like wildfire. He didn't think much of it at the time—just another tiny irritation in a long list of annoyances that filled his life.

Little did Tomas know, that tiny mosquito bite would be the most disastrous event yet.

------

Three Days Later

By the time Tomas was rushed to the hospital, the disease had spread throughout his bloodstream like wildfire. The doctors were baffled—never had they seen a case like his.

"Mr. Tomas… it's too late," the doctor said, looking more at the clock on the wall than his patient. "It's a rare blood disease. We think it was caused by a mosquito bite."

Tomas lay on the hospital bed, feeling too exhausted to even care. Of course it was a mosquito bite. Of course, he was going to die because of a tiny insect. If there was an absurd way to go, this was it.

"Figures…" he muttered, letting his last breath escape him.