It all started with the most insufferable sound known to mankind: the alarm.
Tenma had been sleeping soundly when the infernal, high-pitched, circus-like ringtone shattered the peace of his morning. "Why did I set this song?!" he groaned, his brain still trying to piece together where he was. He slapped at his alarm with a desperate swipe, but instead of turning it off, he sent it flying across the room like a Frisbee on a mission.
The screeching pop song continued blaring from under the bed, and Tenma groaned, dragging himself out of bed with all the grace of a drunken elephant. His hand reached for his phone, but in his haste, he knocked over a bottle of shampoo, sending it flying across the room. It burst open mid-air, spraying a fine mist of liquid all over his shoes.
"Great," he muttered as he slipped on the soap and started sliding across the floor. His socks were now a death trap, slick as ice. He flailed, arms windmilling, before he slammed into the wall. The impact left a massive dent.
"Well, at least I'm not late yet," he muttered to himself, somehow trying to justify the fact that he'd just crash-landed into the wall like a wrecking ball.
In his frantic scramble, Tenma grabbed his bento bag, the only thing standing between him and a solid breakfast. He tossed it over his shoulder and headed out the door, still trying to catch his breath.
But halfway to school, he realized the most horrifying truth: his lunch was missing. Instead of his usual carefully prepared meal, he had a tragic assortment of random objects stuffed in the bag—gum, tissues, a single apple, and, most mysteriously of all, a TV remote.
"Why do I have a TV remote in my bag?" Tenma muttered under his breath, staring at it with confusion. "Is it even mine?"
In a desperate attempt to salvage his dignity (and hunger), he ducked into a convenience store. There, he grabbed two rice balls, hoping they would just be rice balls and not some weird disaster. He tore open one and bit into it, only to instantly regret it. Pickled plums. He was allergic to them. His throat swelled up like a balloon, and his eyes started to water.
"Of course," he wheezed, his voice sounding like it belonged to someone inhaling helium. "Of course it's pickled plums. Why not?"
He stumbled around the store, looking like a human-sized allergy attack. The clerk watched with a blank stare as Tenma gagged and tried to wipe his face with his sleeve. "Are you okay?" the clerk asked, clearly unsure whether to help or call a medic.
"I'm allergic to life itself," Tenma rasped, clutching his throat. "Just let me die in peace."
By the time Tenma reached school, he looked like he'd been through a washing machine. His face was swollen, his hair still wild from his earlier slip-n-slide, and his legs felt like they'd been through a marathon of clumsiness. But as if the universe wasn't done with him yet, he had to survive his first class of the day.
As he sat down at his desk, trying to pretend he wasn't one step away from a public breakdown, his classmate Riku threw him a tube of glue for a group project.
"Here you go, Shirozaki. Got everything you need for your masterpiece?"
Tenma's hand shook as he grabbed the glue, trying to keep it together. But in classic Tenma fashion, he accidentally squeezed the tube so hard that the glue shot out in a giant spurt, covering his fingers.
He looked at his sticky hands in horror, and then, in a split-second moment of pure genius, his hands ended up stuck to his face.
"Why does this always happen to me?" Tenma mumbled, trying to pull his hand away from his cheek only to pull out a clump of hair.
"Dude," Riku deadpanned, "At this point, you might need a transplant... with glue."
Tenma could only respond with a half-hearted shrug, trying to look unfazed. "It's an... artistic statement. I'm embracing the chaos."
The day dragged on, each moment more disastrous than the last. Finally, during lunch break, Tenma was desperate to quench his thirst. He grabbed his water bottle from his bag, eagerly unscrewing the cap, only to realize—too late—that he had filled it with soy sauce instead of water the night before.
The moment the salty liquid hit his throat, his whole body stiffened, and he choked in disbelief. His mouth felt like it was made of pure salt, and his eyes watered as though someone had poured acid into them.
"WHAT IS THIS?!" Tenma gasped, looking at the bottle as if it had betrayed him. "Why… why would I do this?"
Yuki, always ready with an observation, stared at him with a mix of confusion and amusement. "What are you drinking, Shirozaki? Are you sushi-ing on the go?"
"I swear I thought it was water," Tenma muttered, wiping his mouth furiously. "I swear. The universe just hates me."
By PE class, Tenma's day was officially falling apart. He was exhausted from all the humiliations and his body was sore from his repeated crashes. But in his tired stupor, he was ready to get changed for gym... when he noticed something strange: his shoes were filled with gum. Sticky, gross gum.
"Wait," Tenma said, looking at his shoes in disbelief. "Did someone... swap my shoes with someone else's? And why are they filled with gum?"
He stood there, staring at the gooey mess in complete horror. But it wasn't until he tried to walk in them that the true disaster struck.
With each step, Tenma made a loud squelching sound, as if he were walking through a puddle of soup. His every movement sounded like a squish-squish, and he couldn't help but feel his self-esteem evaporating with each sound.
"Shirozaki," the PE teacher called out, eyeing his squishy shoes. "What... what's going on down there?"
"I'm... just living my best life," Tenma said weakly, trying to shuffle forward but only making the most awkward squelching noise imaginable.
A nearby classmate burst out laughing. "Dude, you're walking on bubble gum now. You're like a walking snack!"
And just when Tenma thought nothing else could possibly go wrong... it did.
When he arrived home after school, he was still a mess—a living, breathing catastrophe. But he had a tattoo appointment scheduled, and despite everything, he had to focus.
It was time to leave his tragic school day behind and get down to business. He set everything up in his small apartment, transforming it into a professional tattoo space. He took out a cigarette from the pack and lit it with a quick flick of his lighter. As the smoke curled around him, he leaned back in his chair, hoping the nicotine would at least calm his nerves before the client arrived.
The doorbell rang, and Tenma dropped the cigarette into the ashtray, trying to look more professional than his chaotic life allowed. The client—an older businessman—was there, looking serious.
"I want a minimalist design. Nothing flashy," the man said, eyeing the setup with a wary glance.
Tenma nodded, the "artist" in him now fully activated. This was his moment of control. But just as he started sketching, the client leaned forward, a glint of mischief in his eyes.
"Hey," the man said, "I was thinking... maybe throw a unicorn riding a flaming skateboard on there, too."
Tenma's brain stalled for a moment. A unicorn riding a flaming skateboard? Seriously?
"Sure," Tenma said, gritting his teeth. "A unicorn. Riding a flaming skateboard. Got it."
As he prepared to start the tattoo, he wondered if he would ever escape his personal comedy of errors. Maybe... just maybe, he should stick to high school disasters.
The next day began like the rest: with Tenma waking up way too late.
His phone blared its obnoxious pop song again—this time, he was ready for it. Or so he thought.
His hand shot out and slapped at the alarm, only to realize that he had somehow turned off his second alarm, not the first. The realization hit him like a freight train. He had no time. His heart started racing as he scrambled to throw on clothes, knocking over a pile of laundry in the process. One of his socks, still wet from yesterday's soap incident, squelched as he stepped into it, sending a chill up his spine.
"This is fine," he muttered, pulling on his school uniform while hopping around on one foot, trying to dry his other sock on the heater. "Just another day in paradise."
He grabbed his bag, looking at the time. He had exactly ten minutes to get to school, a journey that normally took him twenty. He ran out of the door like a man possessed, already thinking ahead to the inevitable humiliation that was about to unfold.
As Tenma raced through the streets, dodging stray bikes and random pedestrians, his mind was focused only on one thing: not being late again. Please, he thought, let me make it in time for once.
And then it happened.
His foot hit a small crack in the sidewalk, sending him flying. One moment he was running like a man on a mission, the next he was tumbling head over heels in the middle of the street. A car honked as it screeched to a stop just inches away from his head.
Tenma lay there for a second, winded, trying to collect himself. People walked around him, pretending not to notice the ridiculous scene. His uniform was now a mess—his shirt half untucked, his pants wrinkled, and his hair standing at every possible angle except "normal."
But he couldn't afford to dwell on that. He forced himself up and continued running, now with a slight limp from where his foot had twisted during the fall. There was no time to waste. The bell would ring in five minutes, and Tenma had a reputation to maintain.
By the time Tenma finally arrived at school, his uniform was a disaster, his hair a hopeless mess, and his confidence somewhere between "nonexistent" and "I'm probably about to get yelled at."
As he rushed through the school gates, he could already hear the bell ring, signaling the beginning of first period. He was late. Again.
But this time, it was worse. As he entered the classroom, everyone's eyes immediately turned to him.
The teacher, Mrs. Nakamura, was standing at the front of the class, her stern gaze fixed on Tenma. Her arms were crossed, and she was giving him the kind of look that made you wonder if she had considered filing an official complaint about his existence.
"Shirozaki," she said, her voice cold and commanding. "You're late again."
Tenma tried to offer a sheepish smile, but it only made him look like a deer caught in the headlights.
"I-I'm sorry, Nakamura-sensei! I had… uh, a small emergency," Tenma stammered, his brain working overtime to come up with a reasonable excuse. "I was... uh... helping a lady cross the street. A very important lady."
Mrs. Nakamura raised an eyebrow. "A lady? Shirozaki, you do realize we're in the middle of a school day? Do you not have any regard for punctuality?"
"Well, I did try to get here on time!" Tenma protested, but even he could hear how ridiculous it sounded. He coughed awkwardly. "Okay, fine. I fell. And then a car almost ran me over. But, hey, I made it!"
The class went silent. Mrs. Nakamura's expression didn't change. She stared at Tenma with an intensity that could only be described as "laser-like." Then, in a tone that almost sounded like she was giving up, she said:
"Get to your seat, Shirozaki."
With a quick nod, Tenma made his way to his seat, trying not to look like he was about to implode with embarrassment. Of course, he wasn't alone in this moment of humiliation. His friends—Riku, Yuki, and Haru—were already snickering, their heads down as they tried to contain their laughter.
Tenma slumped into his chair and shot them a look. "This is your fault, you know."
"You're the one who decided to fall into a car," Riku whispered, trying to hold in a snicker. "But I'll admit, it was... epic."
Yuki, barely able to keep his face straight, added, "At least you didn't land in a puddle this time. You're improving!"
Haru, the one who usually kept quiet during Tenma's misadventures, broke into a laugh so loud it nearly echoed across the room.
"Oh, shut up," Tenma grumbled, sinking lower into his seat. "It wasn't funny. I could've died. Could've been the end of Shirozaki Tenma—the legendary klutz. A hero gone too soon."
"More like a hero constantly on the edge of death," Riku joked, nudging Tenma with his elbow. "We'd have a memorial for you, though. Maybe."
The rest of the class dragged on with Tenma doing his best to keep a low profile. The teacher didn't give him much of a break, her sharp gaze never leaving him for long, but he did manage to get through the class without any more disasters. By the time the bell rang, Tenma was feeling a strange mixture of relief and exhaustion.
And then, as he gathered his things and stood up to leave, he noticed that his chair... had somehow gotten stuck to the floor. It didn't just slide out when he tried to push it back.
"Not again," he muttered, struggling to free it.
The sound of his chair scraping against the floor was loud enough to draw the attention of the entire class.
"Shirozaki, what are you doing now?" Mrs. Nakamura asked, looking at him with narrowed eyes.
Tenma froze for a second. "Uh… I'm just... bonding with the chair. We're having a moment."
His friends erupted into laughter, and even the teacher seemed momentarily amused—though she tried to hide it. "Just get out of here, you disaster," she said, though there was a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of her lips.
As Tenma finally escaped the classroom, he was greeted by a chorus of laughter from his friends.
"You seriously make every moment of school a sitcom, man," Haru said, wiping tears from his eyes. "You should sell tickets."
"I think I've seen enough to last me a lifetime," Yuki added. "Next time, though, try not to end up under a car. It's getting a little too dramatic."
Tenma put his hands in his pockets and grinned. "What can I say? I'm living the dream."
"Well, at least it's your dream," Riku muttered, shaking his head in disbelief. "A dream filled with accidents, humiliation, and random explosions of chaos."
"Hey, at least I'm never bored." Tenma shrugged. "Wouldn't trade it for anything."
And just like that, Tenma's disastrous day continued—because it wasn't truly his day unless something absolutely ridiculous happened. With his friends laughing beside him, Tenma couldn't help but smile. As chaotic as his life was, these moments—these absurd, unpredictable moments—were the best part of his school days.