NOTHING EVER GOES RIGHT

Bo didn't make it a full block.

The streetlights blurred into soft halos through his windshield, his hands shaking on the steering wheel. His throat burned. His vision clouded.

He hit the signal and pulled into a quiet curb near a row of closed-up restaurants and a narrow alley lined with dumpsters and flickering light. His car barely came to a stop before the sob ripped through him.

It wasn't loud.

But it was deep.

He pressed his forehead to the wheel, fists clenched in his lap, chest heaving with the kind of ache that felt older than just tonight. This pain had roots. From every time he was hit as a kid and told not to cry. From every moment he tried to be good, to be better, and it still wasn't enough.

Five years.

Gone in a gasp.

He sat in the quiet, letting the sobs roll out in silence, wiping his face with his sleeve, trying to pull himself together but the weight was too heavy.

Then, out of nowhere voices.

Loud. Sharp. Angry.

A man and a woman.

Bo lifted his head slowly, blinking tears from his eyes as the shouting got louder. He leaned to look through the passenger window, eyes scanning the alley.

The man's voice was aggressive. Fast. "I told you not to walk away from me! You think I'm playing?"

The woman's voice shook with a silent warning. "Don't touch me!"

And then smack.

Bo saw it.

The man's arm swinging.

The woman stumbling back, clutching her face.

Bo's jaw tightened.

His heart was still broken, but his purpose clicked into place like muscle memory.

He opened the door and stepped out of the car.

"Hey!" Bo shouted, voice cutting through the alley like thunder. "Back the fuck up!"

The man froze mid-step.

Bo started walking slow but steady, like a storm with legs.

The man puffed up. "This ain't your business, bro. Keep walking."

Bo didn't.

"Put your hands on her again," bo said, his voice steady, cold, and full.

"I swear to God, I'll put you in the ground."

The man hesitated sizing Bo up. But he must've seen something in Bo's eyes. Not rage. Not ego.

Just a man with nothing left to lose.

The guy cursed under his breath and backed off, throwing his hands up. "Fine. Whatever."

He stumbled off, muttering as he disappeared down the alley.

Bo turned to the woman, who was shaking her head irritably.

"You okay?" he asked gently.

Bo exhaled. The adrenaline started to fade. His legs felt like jelly, but he stood strong.

Because no matter how broken he felt, he wasn't going to let someone else break tonight.

Nor would he ever let anyone close enough to see how hurt he was.

Bo's chest was still heaving as the man disappeared down the alley, swallowed by shadows and silence. The woman he'd defended stood there, leaning against the brick wall, arms crossed under her chest, not even a thank you in sight.

She tilted her head at him, eyes narrowed.

"You really shouldn't have done that."

Bo blinked, still catching his breath. "He was hitting you."

She shrugged. "he was mine to punish."

She stepped closer. There was something off in the way she moved—too smooth, like her body wasn't bound by the same rules as his.

"I was feeding."

Bo blinked. "Feeding?"

She didn't answer.

She was older Bo could see it now, under the strange glow of the alley light. Not old in years, but in presence. Like she'd been around long enough to see men like him come and go a thousand times.

Instead, she closed the space between them. Close enough for him to smell her something like smoke, honey, and earth. Her voice dropped low.

"You're hurting," she whispered. "I can smell it all over you."

"I said I'm not in the mood," Bo snapped, stepping back.

But she didn't stop.

"You reek of heartbreak," she said softly, walking in a slow circle around him. "Heavy. Fresh. Betrayed." She dragged the word out like she was savoring it. "That kind of pain tastes like wine."

Bo turned to walk away, jaw tight. "Not tonight."

She stepped in front of him. "Don't matter."

She ran one long, cool finger up the center of his chest, watching him. Waiting. "You ever been worshipped, Bo?"

He stepped back. "Don't touch me."

That surprised her.

Not the rejection but the coldness in it.

He didn't hesitate. Didn't falter. He looked her dead in the eyes and turned away like she was nothing.

"I don't need whatever this is," he muttered, walking back towards his car. "I'm not interested."

Her eyes sparked. "That's exactly why I want you."

Before he could take another step, her hand wrapped around his wrist firm, but not aggressive. Just commanding.

"Come with me," she said.

"No."

But then her grip tightened.

Firm.

Cold.

Strong.

"Let go of me," he growled, twisting his arm digging his feet in but nothing seemed to slow her.

He pulled.

But she didn't budge.

His eyes narrowed as he tried to yank free but her grip didn't even tremble.

"What the hell ?" Bo gasped in shock as non of his military experience is helping.

She yanked him hard, and Bo stumbled forward.

"Lady, I will hurt you." he barked, trying to plant his feet.

But she dragged him like he was made of air.

"Stop struggling," she said, calm but irritated. "You're not going to win."

Bo fought her pull the entire way down the alley, his heels grinding into the ground. "You're crazy! What the hell are you!?"

She didn't answer.

She just pulled him past the dumpsters, around the corner, and toward the dark red tent pressed into the back wall like it had grown from the shadows.

She pulled back the flap.

Golden glow spilled from inside too warm, too big for a space that small.

"what the fuck," Bo muttered, yanking at her grip again.

She looked back at him and smiled

Then she dragged him inside.

A couple millennia ago, when everything was slow before roads, before cities, before the chaos of language and law there existed a world untouched by urgency. Wind carved stories into stone, and stars took their time crossing the heavens. In this world, wild and quiet, there lived a woman.

Or rather, she existed.

She had once lived, once breathed, once laughed perhaps but such things were faint now. Faded memories buried beneath the crushing weight of time. She did not remember her name. She did not remember her face. She did not remember the world before the prison. Only the silence. The endless stretch of it. The hum of magic that looped around her body like chains, soft and unrelenting.

Her prison was a lamp. A cold, beautiful thing, shaped of ancient gold, etched in forgotten script. It was no bigger than a man's forearm, but it held her completely. Not her body, her body had long stopped mattering but her spirit. Her soul. Her will.

She had once screamed. Cursed. Begged. Tried to claw her way through the barrier between her and the world. But time unyielding, merciless time had taken even that from her. Now, she simply was. A presence. A forgotten echo trapped in a beautiful lie.

The world outside her lamp shifted. Civilizations rose, and crumbled, and rose again. She felt them in ripples. The wars. The love. The invention of fire. The sound of a child's laughter pressed against the sand where her lamp lay half-buried. Then silence again. Years. Centuries. Eras passing like exhaled breath.

Until one day

The silence cracked.

It was the smallest thing. A pulse. A twitch in the air. Then, fingers—rough, calloused—wrapped around the lamp like they belonged there. She felt it like a jolt through her entire being. Something ancient stirred. A hinge creaked in the vast silence. Her prison trembled. And then—light.

He opened her.

Not with reverence. Not with awe. No, he opened her like a man pries open treasure. Like someone who expects a reward. His smile was too wide. His eyes, too clever. And beneath the surface of him, she felt it: darkness.

This man was not good.

He didn't need to tell her. She could feel the rot in his spirit. The hunger. The cruelty just beneath his skin. But she stepped from the lamp anyway. Not because she trusted him. Not because he was kind.

Because he was the first.

The first to free her. The first to look into the abyss of her prison and pull. The first to say without saying that she was still real. Still wanted.

And gods help her, she was grateful.

Even though he was evil.

Even though she could feel his intentions curdling in the air like spoiled milk.

Even though her second breath tasted like smoke, not freedom.

Because gratitude, once earned in torment, is a dangerous thing. It binds deeper than magic. And as she looked at the man who had freed her, she did not smile. But she bowed her head.

The storm, she knew, had only just begun.

The moment he saw her truly saw her he forgot his purpose.

The lamp slipped from his hand and hit the earth with a soft thud, forgotten. For before him stood not a creature, not a myth, not a tale from worn scrolls but a woman. Her body shimmered with the heat of desert suns, sculpted like wind-carved stone, flowing, voluptuous, divine. She stood proud, draped in smoke and flame, the air itself curving around her form like it had fallen in love.

And the man? The man was nothing. Nothing but hunger stitched into skin.

He licked his lips, slow and deliberate, and stepped forward.

He didn't want her magic. Not really. He didn't crave the kingdoms she could topple, the gold she could summon, or the time she could bend. No, this man wanted something far more foolish.

He wanted her.

Her body. Her mouth. Her submission. Her heart.

A Djinn's heart.

He thought he could seduce it, claim it like a trophy. He thought desire could be traded for devotion. That power made him worthy. That being the one to release her somehow meant he owned her.

She saw it in his eyes, that belief that pathetic, trembling belief. And with one raised brow and a breath colder than death, she crushed it.

"No," she said, voice low and final. "You may command many things, mortal. But not me."

He reached for her anyway. Greedy fingers, shaking with lust and madness, dared to close around her wrist.

She didn't flinch. She didn't move.

She grasped him.

It wasn't a scream that followed, but a gasp short and wet, like a man suddenly remembering the feeling of his own heartbeat. Pain blossomed in his spine, traveled through every nerve until it whispered one, undeniable truth:

He was fragile. He was nothing.

The grasp lasted only a moment. But when she let go, he stumbled back like she had torn years from him.

He didn't understand. Not fully. Not yet.

"I wish," he spat through clenched teeth, "for more power. Enough to make you kneel."

It was his first wish.

The air bent to obey.

It always did.

The power came flooding him, twisting inside his bones, burrowing into his chest like fire and ash and broken promises. It filled the spaces where doubt once lived. It made him feel tall, unbreakable, and godly.

But power is not a servant. It is a beast. And once fed, it turns its gaze to the one who summoned it.

In his hands, the world shook. His enemies fell. His voice broke mountains.

But in gaining everything, he lost everything else.

The woman he once loved dissolved into dust. His son, hidden away in fear, fled from his shadow. Friends forgot his name. His face became a curse whispered in corners.

Power was hungry. And it feasted first on his soul.

He stood taller than kingdoms but no one stood beside him.

He could touch the heavens but not her. Never her.

She watched from the edge of his unraveling.

Unmoving. Unmoved.

Because even with all the wishes in the world…

He could never have her heart.