The Reluctant Messiah

You’re standing in the men’s restroom of a rundown gas station in the middle of nowhere, clutching a rusty mop like it’s the Sword of Destiny, except your destiny smells like bleach and cigarette ash. The prophecy is etched on every bathroom wall, spelled out in a hundred desperate scrawls:

“HE WHO IS CHOSEN SHALL RESTORE THE KINGDOM.”

In Sharpie and lipstick and the dried remnants of something brownish-red.

You’re the Chosen One. Have been for six years, three months, and nineteen days. But you’ve spent most of that time doing what you’re good at: disappearing. Shaving your head, switching cities, telling people you’re a missionary, a ghostwriter, a janitor. Anything to blend in. But no matter where you go, someone always finds you.

Like him.

The man behind you is tall, skeletal thin, wearing a faded suit that smells like smoke and burnt plastic. He’s holding a pamphlet—one of those glossy trifold brochures—and he looks like every bad decision you’ve ever made rolled into one skeletal grin.

“It’s time to embrace your destiny,” he says.

“No, thanks. Got enough on my plate,” you say, swiping at the cracked mirror with a filthy rag. Your reflection blurs, warps. The fluorescent light flickers overhead, casting you in and out of shadow like some doomed character in a bad noir flick.

“Listen, Messiah. People are dying. The world’s unraveling.” He shoves the pamphlet into your hand. You try not to look at it. You know what’s there—The Sword. The Crown. The Eight Holy Pillars of Sacred Leadership, a PowerPoint presentation of doom. You’ve seen the posters, the advertisements, even the late-night infomercials. You know it by heart:

Save the World. Get Eternal Glory. Complimentary Parking in Heaven.

“Nope,” you say. “Not my gig.”

“Then whose?”

He’s leaning closer now, breath hot and stale, like dead leaves rotting in autumn gutters. That’s when the idea hits. One of those absurd, brilliant strokes of madness that only comes when you’re cornered by destiny in a men’s room off the I-95.

“Whose?” You smile, the way a fox might smile at the rabbit with the broken leg. “I’ve been trying to figure that out for years.”

You toss the mop aside. The rag falls into the sink with a wet plop. “So here’s my offer. You take the mantle. I’ll even teach you. Just sign here.”

You’re not even sure where the contract came from—a little sleight-of-hand you picked up in Vegas, maybe, or an artifact of your cosmic role. Either way, the parchment curls up out of thin air, ink splashing across its surface in fiery script:

“I, [name], do hereby accept the role of Prophesied Hero…”

It’s like a chain reaction of pure, wild possibility. The man hesitates, pupils narrowing to pinpricks as he reads. You can see it all unfolding: the fame, the adoration, the endless struggle against doom and darkness. All those glittering promises, the sacrifices, the constant running from people who want to either kill you or kiss you.

And the one thing people never consider:

The loneliness.

The way people look at you like you’re a god and a freak show all at once.

But he doesn’t know that. Not yet. He’s just hungry—one of those bureaucratic pencil-pushers who always dreamt of being more than just a middleman in a cosmic war. You can see it in the way his eyes gleam, the way his fingers twitch like he’s already imagining the Sword in his hand.

“Go on,” you murmur, leaning in, your breath ghosting over his ear. “Be a hero.”

He signs.

And just like that, you’re free.

It happens so fast, you almost don’t believe it—the parchment vanishing, the flicker of power in the air. The shudder of the universe shifting around you. The man blinks, staggers back, the faint glow of something ancient and holy igniting behind his eyes.

“You—” he breathes. “I—I feel it. I am the Chosen One.”

“Yeah, champ.” You pat him on the shoulder, step around him to grab your backpack from under the sink. “Good luck with that.”

And as you step outside, into the freezing rain and the half-empty parking lot, it’s like something inside you just lifts. No more ancient contracts. No more running. Just a guy, a drifter, a nobody. You pull up the hood of your jacket, savoring the feel of the cold air against your skin.

For the first time in forever, you don’t feel like the universe’s personal chew toy.

And if the new Chosen One just happens to wander out into traffic five minutes later—gets slammed by a semi and dies on impact, the glow of prophecy snuffed out in an instant?

Well.

You’re not sticking around to watch.

Because out there, somewhere, there’s a million other suckers desperate to be a hero.

And you’ve got all the contracts in the world.