# Prologue

  *"Stop reading trash—your mom’s dead!"*

  The shout cut across the classroom like a blade.

  Laughter followed.

  A camera clicked.

  Oda and his gang were at it again, targeting one of the loners.

  The boy shrank in his seat, silent.

  Didn't fight back.

  Minutes later, they turned their sights on someone else.

  Sado.

  They strutted up to his desk, grinning.

  "Hey, loser—"

  Sado stood before the insult could finish.

  No words.

  Just movement.

  From his pocket, he pulled a small plastic bottle.

  Oda laughed, not even bothering to look.

  He was king here—or thought he was.

  He could say whatever he wanted.

  He ruled by noise.

  But Sado didn’t speak.

  He unscrewed the cap—

  and poured the liquid right onto Oda’s chest.

  The sharp chemical smell hit the air instantly.

  "What the hell, man?!"

  Oda raised his fist.

  Sado took a single step back, calm, polite—

  and pulled out a matchbox.

  "This is gasoline," he said softly.

  "If you hit me, I'll set you on fire."

  No threat.

  Just a choice.

  The classroom froze.

  Eyes wide.

  No one breathed.

  Oda stumbled back, fear leaking out of him.

  Hands trembling.

  Sado followed, step for step.

  "You even know what gasoline smells like?"

  Pause.

  "Of course not. You slept through chemistry."

  "TEACHER!" Oda screamed.

  "He poured gas on me!"

  The teacher rushed over, sniffing.

  Paused.

  "It smells like perfume," he muttered.

  "Sado, what is this?"

  Sado looked him dead in the eye.

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  "Yesterday, they dumped water on me," he said.

  "You told me: 'Don’t take it so seriously. It's just a joke.'

  Today, I made a joke too.

  Water mixed with my mother's perfume."

  Silence.

  The teacher swallowed hard.

  If he punished Sado now, he'd expose himself as a hypocrite.

  "And the matches?" the teacher asked, grasping for something.

  Sado opened the box.

  Empty.

  He sat down.

  Calm.

  Unapologetic.

  Not proud.

  Not planned.

  Just... an old lesson, pulled from a dusty letter.

  *"Be a man. A real man doesn’t hurt people. But his enemies? They should fear him."*

  He'd always thought it was stupid advice.

  Today—he tried it anyway.

  ---

  After school, Sado went home.

  His mother sat at the kitchen table, a cup cradled in her hands.

  "Not now," she said softly.

  "He's still at school."

  She wasn’t talking to him.

  She was talking to someone who wasn’t there.

  Kind, gentle—as if hosting a ghost.

  Sado froze in the doorway.

  Wanted to say something.

  *Mom.*

  But the words never made it.

  His throat locked up.

  He just walked past.

  Silent.

  Step after step, sinking deeper into himself.

  ---

  In his room: a package.

  Brown paper.

  Dusty twine.

  Handwriting that punched him in the gut.

  *"Happy Birthday. I’m sorry. — Dad."*

  The same handwriting that once left notes on the fridge.

  "Don’t forget breakfast."

  Now, only an apology.

  Even the paper smelled... absent.

  Sado sat.

  Untied the string slowly, like he might set off a bomb.

  Inside: a lamp.

  Heavy. Tarnished. Brass.

  Not a fairytale lamp.

  A curse made of metal.

  Next to it—a letter.

  Old paper.

  No stamp.

  No return address.

  He opened it.

  ---

  **Letter:**

  *Takhiro,*

  *I'm writing this with shaking hands.*

  *I don’t even know if this will reach you.*

  *I’m sorry. I had no choice.*

  *I sent you the lamp.

  Yes—that lamp.*

  *And yeah, I know how it sounds.*

  *I wouldn’t have believed it either...*

  *But once you see something that shouldn't exist—belief stops mattering.*

  *Inside the lamp is a djinn.*

  *A real one.*

  *I don't know where it came from.

  Or what it really is.

  Only that it's dangerous.*

  *Three wishes.

  After the third—it’s free.*

  *If all the djinns are freed...*

  *Something terrible will happen.*

  *I’m sorry to pass this burden onto you.*

  *I tried to save your mother.

  But maybe it’s already too late.*

  *I know you'll want to bring her back.

  I would too.*

  *But...*

  *If you're reading this, I’m either dead—or already out of the game.*

  *Don't trust your instincts.*

  *I always wanted to tell you:

  I’m proud of you.*

  *Even if you hate me.

  Even if you're furious.*

  *You’re my son.*

  *Forgive me.*

  *Dad.*

  ---

  Sado finished reading.

  He laughed.

  Once.

  Low and broken.

  Like something inside cracked—but stayed standing.

  He looked at the lamp.

  It didn’t move.

  But it *waited.*

  Sticky. Heavy.

  Expectant.

  He reached out.

  ---

  The lights flickered.

  The ceiling groaned.

  Thick black smoke poured into the room like corrupted blood.

  From the smoke—a figure stepped forward.

  Bronze skin.

  White-painted face.

  Black star over one eye.

  Heavy boots.

  Ashen wings behind him.

  He inhaled sharply—

  and hissed:

  *"Do... do do do do do do... Tonight... I wanna give it all to you..."*

  Pause.

  He stared right at Sado.

  Sado stood frozen, shaking.

  The djinn burst into motion, unfurling a smoky banner right in Sado’s face:

  **"IT’S KISS!"**

  **"YOU DON’T KNOW THEM?!"**

  **"WHERE I COME FROM, THAT’S A CAPITAL OFFENSE!"**

  The djinn snapped his fingers, tongue flicking over the air like a spark.

  "Alright, listen. I’m yours. Three wishes."

  "Take down the banner—I kill you.

  Kidding. Can’t wish for death."

  A flick of his wrist—and flaming words burned in the air:

  ? No wishing for more wishes.

  ? No asking others or objects to grant wishes.

  ? No seeing the future.

  ? No resurrection.

  ? No forcing love.

  The djinn leaned in closer.

  "And everything else?"

  He grinned.

  "Risk it."

  ---

  Sado struggled to breathe.

  Chest rising and falling erratically.

  *I could ask for her back.*

  *But if she comes back wrong...?*

  *If she’s empty inside?*

  ---

  "Who had you before me?" Sado asked.

  "Lots," the djinn said.

  "I could tell you... but one of them wiped himself clean.

  No memory.

  No name."

  "Who?"

  "Number fifty-seven.

  Random list.

  No traces left."

  ---

  "How many djinns are still bound?"

  The djinn went quiet.

  "...I'm the last."

  The words dropped like a stone inside Sado.

  The last.

  Meaning—

  If he freed this one—

  The end would begin.

  ---

  "What happens then?" Sado whispered.

  The djinn leaned in.

  "Then... the stage is ours.

  The lights.

  The guitars."

  "We—become gods.

  Rock bands—our priests.

  Fans—our slaves."

  "Everyone else—ashes."

  "The world dies."

  "Rock lives."

  The djinn smiled, cruel and bright.

  "You should know this," he said.

  "Because it’s already too late."

  ---

  Sado stared at him.

  The leather vest.

  The boots.

  The face paint.

  *KISS fan. Of course.*

  "Go back into the lamp," Sado said.

  "I need to think."

  ---

  He buried the lamp under heavy books.

  As if paper could hold back eternity.

  He stepped into the hallway.

  Click.

  Darkness.

  The TV flashed static.

  The coat rack fell.

  A dog barked once—then silence.

  On the floor—an envelope.

  No name.

  No stamp.

  He opened it.

  No letter inside.

  Just a photo.

  Old. Yellowing.

  Himself.

  Sado—as a child.

  His mother, smiling beside him.

  He recognized the kitchen.

  The table.

  The cup in her hand.

  But in the photo—

  He was holding a knife.

  Pressed against her throat.

  Both smiling into the camera.

  He didn’t remember it.

  Because it had never happened.

  He turned the photo over.

  In block letters, it read:

  **"DO NOT INTERFERE."**