The God 's unpaid intern

Chapter 5: The Reward Payout

"Run?" Diego repeated, his voice barely a whisper against the cool night air. "Lucía, listen to me. I need you to go home. Take a cab, don't look back, and forget you ever saw me tonight."

Lucía gripped his forearm, her knuckles white. "Forget it? You just played me like a lead in a spy thriller, and you expect me to just go home and watch reality TV? What is in that case, Diego? And why are you acting like you’ve been possessed by a hyper-active, invisible gym coach?"

“She’s persistent,” the voice in his head droned, sounding mildly bored. “I like her. But she’s a liability. Also, you have a new notification. Don’t get excited. It’s a dud.”

“I can’t tell you,” Diego said, pulling his arm away, his eyes darting toward the street entrance. “If I tell you, you’re in. And you don’t want in. Trust me, the view from the inside is mostly just running and sweating.”

“Diego!” she shouted, her voice echoing off the brick walls of the alley. “We’ve been friends since the sophomore year of college. I have seen you cry over a missed deadline and eat cold ravioli out of a can with a plastic fork. Don't you dare give me the ‘mysterious loner’ act now!”

He looked at her, really looked at her, and felt a surge of genuine, pathetic desperation. He wanted to tell her. He wanted to spill everything—the voice, the speed, the insanity. But the God was already pulsing a warning in his temples.

“Just go, Lucía!” he begged. “Please. I’ll explain everything. Just not here. Not now.”

She stared at him for a long beat, her chest rising and falling in rhythm with his. Then, without a word, she turned on her heel, her footsteps clicking sharply against the pavement as she retreated toward the main road.

“Smart girl,” the God remarked. “Now, about that skill. Since you’re so fond of complaining about how little you know, I’ve decided to gift you ‘Inconvenient Truth-Telling.’ It’s a passive aura. It forces anyone within earshot to blurt out their deepest, most embarrassing secrets if they try to speak to you. Enjoy.”

“A what?” Diego groaned, clutching the briefcase tighter. “How is that useful? I need to be a ninja, not a walking polygraph machine! I’m a paralegal, for God’s sake. My job is to hide the truth, not reveal it!”

“Life isn't a desk job, Diego. Keep moving. You’re home in ten blocks.”

Diego’s apartment building was a decaying monument to beige paint and broken dreams. As he dragged his exhausted body toward the main entrance, he heard the heavy, familiar shuffle of boots on the concrete porch.

Mr. Henderson, his landlord, was sitting on a plastic lawn chair, nursing a lukewarm beer. He was a man whose personality could best be described as ‘grumpy oatmeal,’ and he had a personal vendetta against Diego for the one time he’d accidentally left a candle burning.

“Late night, Diego?” Henderson grunted, not looking up. “You’re making a hell of a racket. And what’s with the suit? You look like you got into a fight with a lawnmower.”

Diego sighed, his head throbbing. He just wanted to get inside, lock the door, and pray the voice in his head would take a vacation. “Just had a long night, Mr. Henderson. I’m just trying to get upstairs.”

“Oh, go on then,” the God urged. “Test the skill. He’s itching to talk.”

“Is there something you want to tell me, Mr. Henderson?” Diego asked, mostly to annoy the entity in his skull.

Henderson stood up, his face flushing a deep, mottled red. He opened his mouth to spout his usual lecture about rent prices or noise complaints, but his eyes suddenly widened. He looked panicked, his hands flapping at his sides.

“I… I… I buried the neighbor’s cat in the community garden three years ago!” Henderson blurted out, his voice high-pitched and strained. “And I’ve been stealing the neighbor’s mail to find out if anyone suspects me!”

Diego blinked, his jaw dropping. “What? Mr. Henderson, why are you telling me this?”

Henderson grabbed his own throat, his eyes bulging. “I—I—I once cheated on my taxes by listing my goldfish as a dependent for four consecutive years! And I have a collection of porcelain clowns in the basement that I name after politicians I hate!”

“Okay, that’s enough!” Diego backed away, holding the briefcase up like a shield. “Why are you doing this? Stop!”

“I can’t!” Henderson shrieked, his voice rising to a frantic pitch. “I also never actually fixed the leak in your ceiling! I just patched it with duct tape and painted over it because I was too lazy to hire a plumber!”

“Oh, he’s a goldmine,” the God cackled, the sound vibrating through Diego’s skull. “Keep digging. Ask him about the hit-and-run.”

“The what?” Diego hissed, but his body betrayed him. He turned back to the man, who was now trembling. “Mr. Henderson, is there anything else? Maybe something involving your car?”

Henderson’s eyes rolled back in his head, his body stiffening as if he were being electrocuted by the truth. “I… I… it was a Tuesday! I was distracted by a podcast! I hit the mailbox on 4th Street, but I panicked and kept driving because my registration was expired! I thought it was just a mailbox, but it was a police cruiser’s side mirror!”

Diego froze. His blood turned to ice. “You hit a cop car?”

“I have no insurance!” Henderson screamed at the top of his lungs, his face purple. “I’m a fraud! My real name isn’t even Henderson! I’m an escaped debtor from three states over!”

“Well, that escalated quickly,” the God observed, sounding entirely too satisfied. “Look, the sirens are already audible. Your landlord is a criminal, and you’re standing here holding a bag of stolen corporate secrets. This is what we call ‘a dynamic environment.’”

“Shut up!” Diego yelled at the air. “I need to fix this!”

He looked at the landlord, who was now hyperventilating, seemingly unable to stop himself from listing every minor infraction he’d committed since 1998. The distant wail of police sirens grew louder, tearing through the quiet suburban night. The red and blue lights began to dance across the brick facade of the building.

“Mr. Henderson, you need to be quiet!” Diego shouted, stepping forward to cover the man’s mouth.

But as he moved, his ‘speed buff’ kicked in automatically. He blurred forward, his palm connecting with Henderson’s shoulder just a bit too hard. The man slumped, unconscious, hitting the lawn chair with a muffled, wheezing sound.

Diego stood over him, panting, the briefcase in his left hand and his right hand outstretched. The sirens reached a crescendo, the flashing lights washing over the crime scene: a knocked-out landlord, a stolen briefcase, and a terrified paralegal.

“Don’t just stand there like a statue,” the God whispered, his tone now cold and clinical. “Drop the briefcase by the bushes, run up the fire escape, and get inside. If they see you, just act like you were trying to help. It’s a classic ‘bystander’ defense.”

“I hate you,” Diego whispered, his voice trembling as he sprinted toward the fire escape.

“Everyone says that at first,” the God replied. “But look at that speed. You’re getting better. Now, jump.”

Diego leaped, catching the bottom rung of the ladder and hauling himself up just as the first cruiser screeched to a halt in front of the building. He scrambled onto the landing, heart pounding against his ribs, watching from the shadows as two officers jumped out, guns drawn, rushing toward the fallen, babbling landlord who was finally, thankfully, silent.

As he crawled through his window, Diego felt the weight of the night crashing down on him. He wasn't a hero. He wasn't a thief. He was just a guy who was currently holding the most expensive, incriminating briefcase in the city while his landlord was about to be arrested for a list of crimes that would take a court reporter all night to type out.

He leaned against his bedroom door, listening to the shouts and the heavy boots of the police below.

“So,” the God said, his voice echoing in the silence of the room. “Do you want to check what’s inside the case, or should we order a pizza? It’s been a very productive evening, Diego. You should be proud.”

Diego slumped to the floor, staring at the ceiling—the ceiling that Henderson had confessed was held together by tape. He sighed, the absurdity of his life finally settling into a hollow, jagged laughter.

“Pizza,” Diego whispered into the dark. “Definitely pizza. And then, we’re burning the house down.”

“I’ll let you know when the sirens stop,” the God replied. “For now, try to look like a normal human being. It’s bad for your health to look that stressed.”*