Paul had stopped counting the years he'd lived. Maybe he'd just forgotten, or maybe that's what he told himself.
Time has lost its meaning, and the silent ridicule of scholars who smiled politely and stopped returning his letters has left him bitter. To them, genies were stories meant to scare or entertain children. To Paul, they were an inheritance of torment.
The desert didn't care who was right.
Night came quickly, as usual this time of winter. Paul kept moving, covered in dust, his fingers shaking with adrenaline as he touched the carved stone wall he'd found before sunset. The temple wasn't on any map a rational person would trust.
He let out a quiet laugh before going inside.
The entrance was narrow and unwelcoming. There were no torches or messages to greet anyone. The darkness inside seemed nearly solid, and it was intentional.
Paul moved inside. The air transformed immediately. It wasn't colder or warmer, just heavier, as though the room itself noticed him.
His weak, almost dead flashlight lit up the single empty room in the center. The black stone walls swallowed any natural light that happened to get through. There was no altar, no pedestals, seats, or involved seals like those described in different stories. He was used to scenes like this by now.
Then the darkness seemed to smile at him. It was barely noticeable, just faint curves where there shouldn't be any. Blue eyes appeared in the air, radiating faintly, both amused and ancient.
"Well," the genie said, his voice steady and pleased, "you found me."
Paul's breath paused. Not due to fear, since any sense of that had disappeared years ago, but from certainty. Every filthy, crubling manuscript, every half-baked, translated rune, every night spent wondering if his family was cursed or just crazy had brought him to this point.
The genie moved forward, primordial magic and wickedness sharpening its form, transforming into something nearly human. His grin was too wide, and his teeth looked like needles, uncountable. His posture was unpleasantly relaxed, like a predator sure their prey could not escape. Approximately two meters tall. He had decided to take on the form of a man with long black hair, olive skin, and blue eyes that pierce like daggers. In this instance, a suit and tie were chosen as clothing. One would almost say he looked nice, if it weren't for the overwhelming uncanny valley that set in whenever you looked at any part of his body for too long.
"One wish, as you are entitled."
Paul swallowed and stayed quiet, careful to keep his face hidden under his cloak.
"Of course," the genie added, raising a finger, "rules exist. One wish only. No stacking or hidden addenda. Try it, and your wish is void." His eyes gleamed. "And I cannot be affected by any wish."
Paul finally spoke. "Those are your rules."
"Yes."
"Not necessarily the rules."
The genie laughed, genuinely delighted.
"Oh, I like you already."
Paul's mind surged faster than it ever had in any lecture hall or dug-up site. This was the moment. The single point his entire life has built up to. He could wish for safety, something no longer guaranteed for the remainder of his life. For generational wealth. For proof, and redeem his reputation.
Or he could try to trick the genie. But he knew that being clever was often punished the most.
Behind his calm face, though his hands still shook, Paul experienced the pressure of generations. He thought of a damned ancestor lost to history, a family split between belief and doubt, and a world that would never believe him, even if he survived.
The genie bent forward. "So," he said with a sense of eagerness, "what will it be?"