It was done. His final sermon concluded. He told the flock who the Shepherd was. The man that ushered in peace amidst the pandemonium of millions that vanished into seemingly thin air. 

He leaves his altar, far above those watching, cheering, raving. He walks into the back of the church into a room he was never seen entering… until today.

The room was bare. No windows, no art, no clutter—just concrete walls, a metal desk, and a chair positioned precisely at its center. A single lamp spilled light across the table like a stage light fixed on a lone performer at the climax of his act.

He stood alone. No audience. No stage. 

He buttoned his black shirt slowly, reverently. Each movement is deliberate. His iconic streetwear outfit—the one worn at every global broadcast, at every “miracle” rally, at every public appearance—was folded neatly on the chair behind him, as if waiting for someone else to inherit it.

His task was now complete, and he knew it. He successfully paved the way for the shepherd to take over. The blood soaked road was now realized. 

Christians are no longer in the way, he thought. All of them… gone.

“World peace” escaped his lips in a whisper. He smiled. 

An object sat on the desk… holding down a sealed envelope. Beside the envelope, his smartphone—ready to be unlocked.

He picks it up and slowly navigates its pages looking for the Instagram app. Normally quick to find, he finds himself taking his time. Once he finds it he goes in to see the world’s news. 

“The Prince of Peace!” exclaims one influencer.

“Is this the real messiah?” says another. 

Story after story. The man that brought world peace. The man that brought the world together. The man that “proved” Christianity’s fallacy. 

The Shepherd. The Shepherd. It’s all he thinks about.

The app fades into the background as a Facetime call comes in. He sighs as his thumb subtly trembles to answer it. It was the first time fear was allowed to protrude his previously strong demeanor.

He pressed the button to answer the call. He let it ring for at least ten seconds.

The screen illuminated, revealing only a silhouette. A man’s shape, backlit and unreadable, yet undeniable in presence.

He lowered his eyes in what could only be described as worship.

“It’s done,” he whispered. “You prepared the world. The flock I put together are yours now.”

No response came immediately. But the figure leaned in, just enough to cast a thin outline across his cheek—a faint, almost imperceptible smile.

“Then finish it, John.” No emotion. No hostility. Just matter-of-fact. As if this was the plan all along.

The call ended.

He hasn’t heard his name in so long, he almost felt as if he had forgotten.

He stared at the screen for a moment, letting the silence settle around him like a blessing. He took the pen from his pocket, scribbled a short message on the outside of the envelope.

To the one who will shepherd the flock. My life is my offering.

He slid the note precisely where the light touched the center of the desk, then gently aligned the unknown object beside it—like an artifact being returned to its altar.

A quiet breath escaped him. Not shaken. Not afraid.

He had preached in six languages. He had rewritten the story of man’s future. He had spoken of peace and light and unity. And they had believed him.

Of course they had. 

He closed his eyes. A final whisper passed his lips—“Let there be no doubt.”

Then he raised the object, a pistol, rested it against his temple, and without hesitation, squeezed the trigger.

The loud echo of a bullet firing pierced the room and immediately died down. Silence returned.

The blood pooled slowly, creeping toward the edge of the desk, just missing the envelope.

And somewhere, in a place yet unseen, the man on the other end of that call… smiles.