The God 's unpaid intern

Chapter 8: Confessions and Lies

“The vessel?” Lucía repeated, her voice cracking. “What are you talking about? Are you high? Have you been doing something that involves needles or chemicals in that apartment of yours?”

Diego ran a hand through his hair, feeling the sweat bead at his temples. The shipping yard seemed to shrink around them, the towering cranes acting like skeletal sentinels waiting for his next move. He could hear the God’s sharp, rhythmic tapping inside his cranium, a reminder of the ticking clock.

“No, no, Lucía, look,” Diego said, waving his hands frantically as he tried to craft a story that didn’t involve an ancient, bored deity. “It’s not… it’s not magic. It’s an underground thing. A club. A fight club.”

“A fight club?” Lucía took a step back, her eyes flicking to the three unconscious men in the dirt. “You? You struggle to open a jar of pickles without using a towel, Diego. How do you go from paralegal to… to that?”

“Oh, tell her about the ‘illegal gambling ring’,” the God buzzed, sounding like he was eating popcorn. “Make it dramatic. Mention a secret tournament where the loser gets their organs harvested. She’ll love that.”

“I was kidnapped,” Diego blurted out, the lie rolling off his tongue with surprising fluidity. “Three months ago. Coming out of the grocery store. They stuffed me in a van, and when I woke up, I was in a basement. They said I had ‘natural potential’ for high-stakes combat, probably because of my weirdly high pain threshold or something.”

Lucía stared at him, her skepticism deepening into a scowl. “Kidnapped? Diego, you’ve been at work every single day. I see your social media posts. You’re at the office, you’re eating bad takeout, you’re complaining about the printer.”

“Deep cover,” Diego insisted, stepping closer and lowering his voice. “They make me keep my life as normal as possible to avoid suspicion. If I stop being boring, they think I’m trying to escape. The ‘Diego’ you know is just a performance. This?” He gestured toward the thugs. “This is the real nightmare.”

Lucía looked at the unconscious men, then back at Diego’s disheveled, pathetic appearance. “So, you’re telling me you’re a secret cage fighter, but you still spend your weekends watching reruns of 90s sitcoms and crying when the main character gets married?”

“It’s a coping mechanism!” Diego argued, his voice hitting a frantic, thin note. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to get punched in the ribs by a guy who eats raw steak for breakfast and then have to go file a motion for summary judgment two hours later?”

“Excellent,” the God cackled. “She’s starting to buy it. Emphasize the threat. Tell her you can’t leave because they have your family—wait, you don’t have family here. Tell her they have your… your lease. Tell her they’ll evict you and make you homeless.”

“They have my lease,” Diego said, his eyes wide and mournful.

Lucía blinked, her expression shifting from suspicion to genuine, confusing pity. “Your lease? That’s what they’re holding over your head?”

“It’s a rent-controlled apartment, Lucía!” Diego cried, grabbing her shoulders. “In this city! If I leave the club, they’ll break my lease, hike the rent, and I’ll be living in a cardboard box under a bridge. Do you want me to live in a box? Is that what you want?”

Lucía stared at him, looking like she wanted to both hug him and slap him. “You’re the most ridiculous man I have ever met. You’re telling me you’re a lethal combat machine, but you’re staying in a high-stakes criminal organization just to keep your rent at eighteen hundred a month?”

“It’s a great deal!” Diego defended, his voice hitting a hysterical pitch. “It has a view of the brick wall across the street! You can’t find that kind of atmosphere anywhere else!”

“She’s looking at you like you’re a golden retriever who just ate a lightbulb,” the God observed. “It’s working. Keep her focused on the ‘tragedy’ of your rent.”

Lucía sighed, letting her head drop back. The wind whipped through the yard, rattling the rusted containers. “Okay. Okay, let’s say I believe this nonsense. Let’s say there’s an underground fight club that cares about residential property management. How do you get out? How does one ‘quit’ a secret society of cage-fighting landlords?”

Diego froze. He hadn’t thought that far ahead. He just needed her to stop asking about his super-speed.

“Tell her the ‘Grand Exit’,” the God whispered. “Tell her there’s a final match tonight. The winner gets his freedom. But tell her you can’t possibly win it alone because your… your hands are injured from filing too many motions.”

“I have to fight the champion,” Diego whispered, looking at his own hands with fake intensity. “The ‘Grand Exit.’ If I win, I get my life back. But my wrists… the constant typing at the firm… it’s weakened my grip. I’m not sure I can take him.”

Lucía looked at the unconscious thugs, then at the briefcase, and finally at the bruised, terrified man in front of her. She took a deep breath, her eyes blazing with a sudden, fierce determination.

“Fine,” she said, her voice hard as steel. “You’re not fighting alone. If this club wants to keep you in a cycle of indentured servitude for the sake of a studio apartment, they’re going to have to deal with me, too.”

“You?” Diego’s voice squeaked. “Lucía, no! They’re thugs! They’re monsters! They’ll… they’ll force you to pay market rate for a studio in the suburbs!”

“I don’t care about the rent, Diego!” she snapped, stepping into his personal space. “I care about the fact that you’ve been living this double life and you didn’t tell me. If you’re going to get out of this, I’m helping you plan the exit. Where is the match? When is it?”

“Oh, this is going to be magnificent,” the God purred. “Tell her it’s at the old foundry downtown. Midnight tomorrow. Tell her she has to be your ‘corner person’ so she can hold the towel.”

“The foundry,” Diego mumbled, realizing he was digging a hole so deep he’d eventually hit the earth’s mantle. “Tomorrow. Midnight. You… you can be in my corner. But you have to wear a disguise! And maybe a wig! They’re very strict about identification!”

Lucía narrowed her eyes. “I’m not wearing a wig, Diego. I’m going to go there, walk into that ring, and tell your kidnappers that your lease negotiation is over.”

“They’ll probably break your legs, Lucía,” Diego said, his voice genuinely panicked now.

“Good luck to them,” she said, turning toward the gate. “Because if they try to touch me, they’ll have to deal with the person who taught you how to file taxes. And trust me, nobody wants to see me when I’m auditing.”

As she walked away into the dark, Diego stood in the center of the shipping yard, his legs still humming with the fading afterglow of his super-speed.

“You realize you have to actually fight someone now, right?” the God asked. “You’ve essentially invited your girlfriend to watch you commit a felony at a nonexistent fight club.”

Diego looked at the sky, his head resting against the cold metal of a shipping container. “I hate you. I really, truly hate you.”

“And yet,” the God replied, its voice thick with dark, cosmic amusement, “you’re already looking forward to tomorrow, aren’t you? The adrenaline. The performance. The look on her face when you inevitably save the day.”

Diego didn’t answer. He just picked up the briefcase, turned toward the exit, and started walking, his shadow stretching out behind him like a question mark he couldn't quite erase.

“Tomorrow,” he whispered to the wind. “I’m going to need a lot of espresso.”