Luis Mendoza was having that kind of day—the kind where the universe doesn't just forget you exist, but goes out of its way to personally ruin you.
It started with his alarm clock betraying him, which meant he was late (again) for his Financial Accounting midterm. Then came the fall—face-first into a puddle that smelled like a can of expired tuna had died in it. By the time he reached the bike rack, there was one less bike in the world. His. The third one this month. Naturally.
"Awesome," he muttered, soaked to the soul. "At this point, I think the cosmos has a personal vendetta."
That's when a voice screamed—inside his head.
"Oh for stars' sake, NOT AGAIN!"
Luis froze. That wasn't his voice. Not even close. The air before him twisted like heat off asphalt, warping into the vague outline of a man—tall, thin, dressed in something that may have once been a robe before a gang of rats got hungry. His expression was a perfect blend of existential exhaustion and losing-at-blackjack-for-eternity misery.
"You've got to be kidding me," the figure groaned, rubbing his temples like a caffeine-deprived professor. "Another one already? This is getting ridiculous."
Luis blinked slowly. "Excuse me... who?"
"Zyx," the man said, deadpan. "God of Misfortune. Congratulations—you're my new host."
Luis's jaw didn't just drop—it retired from the conversation.
"I'm sorry, your what?"
Zyx flicked his fingers and a floating hologram snapped into being, displaying glowing red numbers:
HOSTS ASSIGNED: 1,324
HOSTS KILLED: 1,324
CURRENT WIN STREAK: 0
"See? You're number 1,325." Zyx crossed his arms. "Statistically speaking, you're very screwed."
Luis stared. "They all died?"
"Most within minutes," Zyx said with an almost proud nod. "Though I had one champ make it a full month. It was during a leap year, though, so technically—still short."
Luis's pulse quickened. "So… I'm next?"
"Yup." Zyx clapped him on the back. "But look, at least you're part of a long-standing tradition of heroic failure. That's gotta count for something, right?"
Before Luis could respond, the ground shook.
A massive creature—part wolf, part horror-movie fever dream—emerged from a nearby alley. Six eyes, bony spikes, and enough drool to drown a toddler. It snarled, and the air grew colder.
"Ah, classic Voidfang." Zyx looked mildly impressed. "Good tutorial monster. Simple. Brutal. To the point."
Luis scrambled backward. "WHAT DO I DO?!"
"Honestly? Nothing. Most of my hosts die here. Let's see how you perform."
"ARE YOU INSANE?!"
Zyx sighed. "Fine, fine. Just stand still."
The monster lunged—only for a fire hydrant beside it to explode, launching the beast into a dumpster with the kind of force normally reserved for explosions in action movies. It let out a pathetic whimper before dissolving into oily smoke.
Luis stood, panting, adrenaline buzzing like live wires under his skin. "I lived?"
Zyx raised a brow. "Barely. That was the warm-up. Game starts now."
Sirens blared. Then a deep, booming voice echoed across the sky like God's personal PA system:
"Attention: Monster incursion initiated. Civilians seek shelter. All Hosts—survive if you can."
Luis paled. "They mean me?"
"Mm-hmm." Zyx grinned. "And you're my Host. Which, frankly, means you're already playing on nightmare difficulty."
Somewhere in the distance, a building crumbled like a soda can.
Luis exhaled shakily. "How bad is this going to get?"
Zyx gave him a pitying pat. "Ever seen a clown car on fire inside a tornado, crashing into a sewage plant? Worse."
That was the exact moment Luis Mendoza—midterm flunker, unlucky human lightning rod, and now the current meat shield for the universe's most ill-fated deity—realized something:
This year wasn't going to be bad.It was going to be catastrophic.