The God 's unpaid intern

Chapter 1: Divine Annoyance

The sun bled through the blinds of Diego’s studio apartment, turning the dust motes into tiny, golden irritants dancing before his eyes. He groaned, rolling over to bury his face in a pillow that smelled faintly of regret and laundry detergent. His head felt like it had been used as a practice dummy for a heavy-weight boxing match, the remnants of last night’s cheap coffee vibrating behind his temples.

"Ugh, never again," Diego mumbled into the fabric. "Note to self: stick to tea. Or water. Or nothing."

“Actually, a double espresso would be fantastic right about now, don’t you think?”

Diego froze. The voice wasn't his own—it was crisp, annoying, and resonated inside his skull like a vibration from a high-end speaker system.

“Who said that?” Diego snapped, sitting up and scanning his cramped, empty room. “Is someone in my apartment? I have a roommate, but he’s at work. And he doesn't sound like he belongs on a morning news broadcast.”

“I’m not a roommate, Diego. I’m an upgrade. And trust me, your life was incredibly dull before I showed up.”

“Upgrade? What are you, a firmware patch?” Diego rubbed his eyes vigorously. “Am I hallucinating? Is this a stroke? I’m twenty-four, I shouldn't be having a stroke.”

“You aren't dying. You’re just finally being useful. Now, get up. We have a schedule. And honestly? I hate the way you’re slouching.”

“I’m slouching because I’m dealing with a literal voice in my head!” Diego yelled at the ceiling. “Get out! Go haunt someone else, like an influencer or a politician!”

“Can’t. You’re the chosen vessel, and quite frankly, the pickings were slim. Now, put on your shoes. You have a very important task: ruin the day of the man currently occupying locker 402 at the Iron Grind Gym.”

“Are you joking?” Diego stood up, his legs shaking slightly. “I’m not a thief. I’m a paralegal. I file papers. I don't commit petty larceny because some cosmic podcast started playing in my brain.”

“‘Petty larceny’? It’s called character development. Move. If you’re late, I’ll turn your internal alarm clock into a jackhammer.”

The Iron Grind Gym was a temple of vanity and expensive protein powders. Diego stood by the rows of lockers, his heart hammering against his ribs like a trapped bird. He felt ridiculous, wearing a hoodie two sizes too big and smelling like a man who hadn't slept well in a week.

“This is insane,” Diego whispered, glancing around to ensure no one was watching.

“Focus, Diego. See that guy? The one with the ego so big it’s practically visible? That’s Mark. And those custom-made, Italian leather sneakers on his feet? Those are the target.”

“I can’t just walk up to a guy built like a fridge and take his shoes,” Diego hissed.

“You aren't taking them off his feet. He’s about to shower. He’s a creature of habit. Three minutes in the stall. Go.”

“This is a nightmare,” Diego muttered, moving toward the locker area with the grace of a startled gazelle.

“Faster. Your walk is embarrassing. Put a little pep in your step.”

“It’s a gym, not a runway!” Diego whispered harshly.

Mark—the fridge-sized man—tossed his bag into an open locker and sauntered off toward the showers, whistling a tune that made Diego want to scream.

“Now. Locker 402. The combination is 12-44-09. Hurry up, you clumsy amateur.”

“How do you even know the combo?”

“I’m a god, Diego. I know everything. Also, you’re currently wasting my time.”

Diego reached the locker, his hands trembling. He spun the dial. Click. Click. Click. The lock popped open with a sound like a gunshot in the silent room. Inside sat the sneakers: pristine, white, and worth more than Diego’s rent for the next three months.

“Got them,” Diego said, his voice shaky. “Okay, mission accomplished. Can we go now? I feel like a total creep.”

“Bag them. Run. And keep the head down.”

As Diego shoved the shoes into his gym bag, a heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder. Diego spun around, nearly tripping over his own laces.

“Hey, man,” a voice boomed. It was a gym security guard, a man whose neck was wider than Diego’s head. “What are you doing in someone else’s locker?”

“I... I was just looking for my own?” Diego squeaked. “I’m a bit lost. New here.”

“You’re standing in front of 402, buddy. That’s not your locker.” The guard’s eyes narrowed. “And is that Mark’s bag? You’re dead, kid.”

“Oh, he’s definitely going to hurt you,” the God chirped, sounding entirely too entertained. “Unless you listen to me. I’m granting you a temporary speed buff. Don’t waste it.”

“A what?”

Suddenly, Diego felt a spark of electricity shoot through his legs. The world seemed to slow down. The guard moved like he was wading through molasses, his arm swinging toward Diego in a sluggish, heavy arc.

“Whoa,” Diego gasped, his pulse racing with a sudden, intoxicating rush of adrenaline.

“Move, you idiot! Run!”

Diego didn't need to be told twice. He sprinted, his feet barely touching the floor. He felt like he was floating, every muscle in his body humming with a speed he’d never possessed. He bolted past the weight racks, the guard shouting behind him, his voice echoing distortedly.

“Stop him!”

Diego saw the emergency exit. He didn't bother for the handle; he hit the crash bar with his hip, the door flying open and slamming against the brick wall outside. He burst into the cool, morning air, his chest heaving, his legs burning with the effort of the unnatural sprint.

He didn't stop until he reached the far side of the parking lot, collapsing behind a row of parked cars. He gasped for air, his lungs feeling like they’d been scrubbed with sandpaper.

“Not bad,” the God said, sounding almost impressed. “A little messy on the exit, but you didn't get tackled. Progress.”*

“Never,” Diego wheezed, clutching his stomach. “Don't ever... ask me... to do that again.”

He looked up, wiping sweat from his forehead, and froze.

Standing ten feet away, staring at him with a look of utter bewilderment and disbelief, was Lucía. She was holding a bag of groceries, her jaw slightly dropped as she took in the sight of Diego, panting, sweating, and clutching a pair of stolen designer sneakers while crouched behind a rusted sedan.

“Diego?” she asked, her voice tight with confusion. “Is that… are those my brother’s shoes?”