I didn’t sign up for this. Well, I guess I did. Technically.

But when I raised my hand in a half-hearted oath, I thought this job was going to be, I don’t know, heroic.

Guarding a castle gate sounded noble. Like I’d be protecting a king. Maybe saving a princess. At least stopping a thief or two. Something that would make me feel like I mattered.

Not… this.

This is ridiculous.

The sun is blinding. I’m sweating through my boots. And some guy who looks like he got his outfit from a boss fight just walked past me with a swagger that makes me want to trip him.

Except I can’t. Because I’m supposed to stand here. Stoic. Unmoving. Silent. That’s the trope. And apparently, I’m too stupid or too broke to question it.

I clear my throat. Mostly because it’s dry. But partly because if I don’t say something, I might actually explode. “Halt! Who goes there?”

He doesn’t even slow down. Not a twitch, not a stumble. He tosses a look over his shoulder and says, “I go wherever destiny calls me.”

Destiny? Who even talks like that?

I blink at him, my brain stuttering as I process the absolute nonsense of his words. Then I realize something important. “Yeah, okay, but did you fill out the logbook?” I call after him.

The logbook is my thing. It’s the one piece of order I cling to in my otherwise chaotic life. It doesn’t matter if you’re the Chosen One, a traveling bard, or the guy delivering apple pies. If you want to cross the gate, you sign the logbook.

He doesn’t answer. Obviously.

So, I do something I’m not supposed to do. I leave my post.

I know the rules. Don’t abandon the gate, Greg. The gate is life, Greg.

But I’ve had enough. The other guards can laugh at me later. This guy needs to learn respect.

I jog after him. The clanging of my armor makes me sound like a barrel of pots falling down stairs.

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By the time I catch up, he’s already in front of the Ancient Doors of Doom. Or whatever overly dramatic name the architect gave this stupid entryway.

He spins around, annoyance written all over his face. His cape does that unnecessary flowing thing, like the wind’s been hired as his personal stylist.

“Do you mind?” he snaps. “I’m kind of in the middle of my hero’s journey.”

Oh, for—

“I do mind,” I say, crossing my arms. “You didn’t sign the logbook. It’s regulation. Everyone signs it. Even the guy who delivers the apple pies.”

His face twists in disbelief. “The apple pie guy signed it?”

“Yes. Because he respects the process.”

The Chosen One, or whatever he calls himself, rolls his eyes so hard I’m worried they might get stuck.

Then, with an exaggerated sigh, he grabs the quill from me and scribbles something on the page.

I squint at the logbook. “This says ‘Destiny, last name Unknown.’”

“That’s my name,” he says smugly.

I wave the quill in his face. “Your real name.”

There’s a long, dramatic pause where he glares at me like I’ve just insulted his ancestors. Finally, he sighs again. “It’s Bob.”

I blink. “Bob?”

“Bob.”

I have to bite my cheek to keep from laughing, but it’s hard. This guy has the whole “hero aesthetic” going: flowing cloak, extra shiny sword, boots that look like they’ve never touched mud. And now all I can picture is a bunch of villagers screaming, “Save us, Bob!”

“Alright, Bob,” I say, writing it down. “Good luck in there.”

I turn to leave, ready to go back to my boring, sweaty gate post, when I hear it. A soft but clear click.

Bob freezes. “Uh… is that bad?”

The floor beneath us starts to rumble. And then, because of course it does, giant spiked walls start sliding out of the stone, closing in on us.

Bob starts flailing his arms like a panicked chicken. “What do we do?! What do we do?!”

I stare at him, deadpan. “You’re the Chosen One. Don’t you have, like, a prophecy for this?”

“I don’t know!” he yells. “This is my first dungeon!”

The walls are getting closer, the spikes shining in the torchlight like they’re laughing at us. I look around, my eyes scanning the room for something. Anything.

Then I see it. A lever.

Grabbing Bob by the cape, I drag him toward it. He’s still panicking, muttering something about how he’s “not ready for this” and “why are there so many spikes?”

I pull the lever. The walls stop moving.

Bob looks at me like I’ve just summoned a dragon out of thin air. “How did you know to do that?”

“It’s a lever,” I say, my tone dripping with sarcasm. “Levers stop things. It’s, like, Lever 101.”

He stares at me. Then at the lever. Then back at me. “You saved me.”

Oh no. No, no, no. I don’t need this guy getting attached. “I didn’t save you. I saved me. If you died, I’d have to fill out so much paperwork.”

Bob nods slowly, like he’s trying to process the depths of my genius. “You should come with me.”

“Nope,” I say, already heading back to my post. “I have a gate to guard. Go fight your dragon or whatever.”

“Doom Serpent,” he corrects.

“Of course it is,” I mutter.

As I walk back to my gate, I can’t help but laugh. Bob the Chosen One. If he’s the guy who’s supposed to save the world, we are all so doomed.