The scent of burnt coffee and old grease clung to the air as you scrubbed at a stubborn stain on the counter. The cheap fluorescent lights flickered overhead, buzzing in the silence of the near-empty diner. It was past midnight—only the occasional customer staggered in, half-drunk or half-dead inside, much like yourself.

  Your phone vibrated in your apron pocket. With a tired sigh, you fished it out, expecting another spam email or, if you were lucky, a shift change request.

  It wasn’t.

  Landlord: Rent’s overdue. Two days. Don’t make me chase you again.

  You stared at the message, swallowing the lump in your throat. It wasn’t even a threat, not really. Just a simple fact—you were running out of time.

  And then, as if summoned by your misery, another call came in. A number you recognized all too well.

  You hesitated. Picking up meant reopening wounds you had long since learned to bandage over. But ignoring it wouldn’t make it disappear.

  Clenching your jaw, you answered.

  "Hello?"

  The voice on the other end was cold. Business-like. "Have you gathered the money yet?"

  Your grip tightened around the phone. "I told you… that debt isn’t mine."

  A scoff. "Your parents took it for you. Your education, your living expenses. Are you saying you refuse to take responsibility?"

  You shut your eyes, breathing slowly. Lies. All of it. You had gone to a public school, earned scholarships, worked yourself to the bone to survive. But your family—no, the people who once called themselves your family—had used you as a shield, a name to attach to their failures. And when you questioned it, they had discarded you like an inconvenient bill they no longer wanted to pay.

  "Look, I—"

  "You have until next week. Pay up, or we come collecting."

  The call ended.

  You exhaled shakily, shoving the phone back into your pocket. The weight of exhaustion sat heavy on your bones, but there was no time to rest.

  You glanced toward your manager, who was scrolling on his phone behind the counter, doing absolutely nothing useful. Gathering what little dignity you had left, you stepped forward.

  "Sir, is there any chance I can get a pay advance?"

  He barely looked up. "No."

  "I just—"

  "We’re not a charity. If you don’t like the pay, quit."

  Your fingers curled into fists at your sides. You wanted to argue, wanted to scream, but what was the point? No one cared.

  Taking a step back, you forced yourself to check your emails instead. Maybe—just maybe—one of the dozens of jobs you had applied to had responded.

  Inbox: 3 new messages

  Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  You clicked on them, hope flickering dimly in your chest.

  "Dear applicant, we regret to inform you…"

  "Unfortunately, we have decided to proceed with other candidates…"

  "While we appreciate your interest, we are unable to move forward due to your incomplete degree…"

  Rejection. Rejection. Rejection.

  You stared at the screen, chest tightening, hands trembling.

  It was suffocating.

  The diner walls felt smaller, the fluorescent lights too harsh, the world too loud and too cruel and too—

  You had to get out.

  Peeling off your apron, as your shift ends.

  Hands shoved in your pockets, you exhaled, watching your breath curl into the air

  The city never sleeps, but you barely make enough to keep the lights on.

  Two part-time jobs, unpaid bills, and a debt that isn’t even yours. It’s suffocating. Every rejection email, every condescending glance from people who have never known hunger—it all chips away at something inside you.

  But what choice do you have?

  You exhale, rubbing your tired eyes as you make your way home. It’s late. The streets are empty, and the wind howls through the alleyways like a wounded beast. Normally, you wouldn’t take the shortcut past the abandoned church, but exhaustion makes you careless.

  "I’d give anything for this to stop." you mumble, dejected.

  You don’t expect an answer.

  But the shadows stretch unnaturally that night. The air feels heavier, like the world itself is holding its breath.

  That’s when you see it.

  A pendant, half-buried in the dirt beneath the cracked altar. The metal is cold against your fingers—unnaturally so. Something about it feels wrong.

  And then—

  The air shifts.

  The streetlights flicker. The wind stops.

  Darkness spills from the pendant, crawling like ink, twisting into something unnatural. The world around you distorts, and then—

  A voice.

  Low. Deep. Irritated.

  "Of all the wretched humans… it had to be you?"

  A mass of swirling black mist rises before you, tendrils shifting, writhing—something not entirely solid, yet undeniably alive. You barely manage a breath before you do the only thing that makes sense:

  You scream.

  The eerie black mist coils, shifting in unnatural patterns, surrounding you but never quite touching. Your heart pounds, your instincts screaming at you to run, but your legs betray you.

  "I’m trying to exorcise you!" you blurt out, pressing the pendant against your chest like some kind of makeshift holy charm.

  A beat of silence.

  Then—

  "You’re what?"

  You gulp. "E-Exorcising you?"

  The mist recoils slightly. Then, in an almost offended tone—

  "I am not a ghost."

  That makes you pause. You squint at him, suspicious. "Then what are you?"

  No answer.

  You frown, thinking hard. Not a ghost… but clearly supernatural… mysterious, dramatic, covered in mist…

  A ridiculous thought pops into your head. You hesitate for only a second before blurting—

  "Wait—are you a genie?"

  The swirling mist stills.

  The temperature drops.

  Silence stretches so long you think he might have actually disappeared.

  Then—

  "You cannot be serious."

  You barely hear him, too caught up in your own excitement. "Oh my god, are you here to grant me wishes?!"

  Another silence.

  Then, slowly, the mist recoils like you just personally insulted it.

  "I am not a genie." he grits out, voice edged with barely restrained irritation.

  "You came out of this thing when I touched it!" You shake the pendant for emphasis. "That’s literally how it works in the stories!"

  "I did not come from it," he growls. "I was summoned because of it. There is a difference."

  Your enthusiasm dims just a little. "...Summoned?"

  The mist shifts, curling lazily around your feet like it’s thinking. Then—

  "It is mine." he states simply. "And you touched it."

  Oh.

  You blink down at the pendant in your hand.

  Then, slowly, you step back.

  "So... if I put it down, you’ll go away?"

  "Give it back." His voice is calm, but something in it warns you.

  You hesitate. Your fingers tighten around the pendant.

  And then, because you are tired, because the world has never been fair to you, and because you are just reckless enough to test your luck, you blurt:

  "Not until you grant my wishes."

  A sharp pause.

  Then—

  "I am not a genie."

  "Yeah, yeah, you keep saying that, but hear me out—"

  "I do not grant wishes."

  "Then what do you do?"

  No answer.

  But somewhere within the swirling mist, unseen, a thought stirs.

  What do I do?

  He doesn’t answer because the truth is… he doesn’t know anymore.

  He has been alone for a long time. Since he left. Since he started running.

  But this girl—this insufferable, stubborn, ridiculous girl—was standing there, grinning like she had just won some cosmic lottery, refusing to hand over something that wasn't hers to begin with.

  She was entertaining.

  And perhaps…

  "Fine," he murmurs, more to himself than to her. "I’ll humor you. For a while."

  "So you’ll grant my wishes?"

  A slow, deliberate sigh.

  "No."

  "But you'll stick around?"

  A pause.

  "For now."

  You grin, victorious. "Same thing."

  He exhales like he’s regretting every decision that led him here. Then—

  "One condition."

  You tilt your head. "What?"

  A dark scroll materializes in front of you, its ink shifting like moving shadows. Strange symbols run along its edges, flickering in and out of existence. A single line glows in eerie crimson:

  "Until this contract is fulfilled, the summoned shall remain in the mortal’s presence."

  Your eyes skim the words lazily. Blah blah blah, sounds about right.

  "Sign," he says flatly.

  You blink. "Wait, seriously? A magical contract? This is so cool."

  He doesn’t respond.

  Without a second thought, you swipe a finger across the bottom. The ink clings to your skin unnaturally as it writes your name on its own.

  The second the last letter forms—

  The scroll bursts into black mist.

  The deal is sealed.

  You grin. "There. Now you can’t run off before my wish is granted."

  A long silence.

  Then, in an exhausted sigh—

  "You didn’t even read it, did you?"

  Your grin falters.

  ...Oops.

  Before you can react, the mist shifts.

  And suddenly—

  You’re not in the church anymore.

  The ink is dry, the binding set—some contracts are not so easily broken.

  Thanks for reading! Let me know what you think.