Mr. Bakri’s two thugs froze at the warehouse threshold. Their flashlights wobbled, the beams cutting through the blue smoke that still hung in the air like a thin curtain. They couldn't see Zat clearly—only a faint shadow distorting the air—but they could feel the pressure. A piercing cold, as if someone had just opened a massive freezer door in the middle of a sweltering night."Wh-who's there?!" shouted one of them, a man named Soleh. His voice trembled, contrasting sharply with the iron pipe he gripped tightly.Arga didn't answer. He was still slumped on the floor, his breath coming in gasps, his eyes fixed on the figure floating casually in front of him. Zat, the inhabitant of the bottle, was busy inspecting his long, sharp nails, as if the threat before them was nothing more than a swarm of annoying flies.Zat turned slowly toward Arga. His smile was crooked, dismissive. "Did you hear that, Broke Kid? They’re asking who I am. You should tell them I’m the catastrophe that’s going

Arga's footsteps pounded against the asphalt with the last of his strength. He supported his mother on his shoulder, her breath coming in gasps. Behind them, the roar of Mr. Bakri's motorcycles could still be heard, but somehow, the blue mist that had suddenly descended upon the warehouse caused the debt collectors to lose their trail.Zat floated beside Arga, his figure now appearing transparent, as if his energy had just been completely drained. His pale face looked sour, even more annoying than usual."Slow down, Kid. I can't conjure a mist if you're running like the devil is—well, I mean, if you're running this frantically," Zat grumbled.Arga didn't answer. He kept dragging his feet until they reached a narrow alley behind the flea market, a place dark enough to hide. He sat his mother down on a stack of plastic pallets."Mom... are you okay?" Arga checked the bruise on his mother's cheek. His hands were shaking.His mother only shook her head weakly, her eyes fixed on Arga with

Arga's footsteps felt heavy, as if pulled by an unnatural gravity. Beside him, Raka walked with a clenched jaw, his hand still trembling—whether from the lingering pain or the rage boiling over. In front of them, the man in sunglasses with the wooden cane walked calmly. The rhythmic tapping of his cane on the quiet corridor floor sounded like the ticking of a death clock."I don't know what kind of black magic charm you're using, Arga," Raka whispered, his voice hoarse and full of hatred. "But this coin will make sure you can't lift a finger. You're going to grovel at my dad's feet before the day is over."Zat floated behind Arga, his figure appearing slightly blurred, as if the blue glow of his body was being disrupted by the red aura from the gold coin in Raka's pocket. The spirit snorted, crossing his arms."Tch, this wet-behind-the-ears brat is really asking to have his tongue cut out," Zat grumbled. His voice was audible only to Arga’s ears. "Does he really think that cheap coin

Dust and lingering wisps of smoke from the chaos in the canteen still clung to Arga’s hair as he ran down the school corridor, which was starting to empty. His breath was short. In his pocket, the coins from Zat’s "hard work" still felt warm, as if the metal still held a trace of life."You run like a chicken thief caught by the villagers, Arga. You're embarrassing my dignity as an ancient entity," Zat’s voice whispered, sharp and full of mockery. His form was invisible, but Arga could feel the cold gust of wind following his every step."Shut up, Zat! Those two tattooed guys... they were definitely Mr. Bakri’s men. If I get caught, I won't just be taken to the police station; I'll be going straight to the grave!" Arga replied in a half-whisper while looking around frantically.He needed a place to hide. The library was too open, and teachers were already filling the classrooms. The only place that crossed his mind was the old restroom at the end of Building B, which was rarely used b

"Quiet, you runt! I’m concentrating on watching how to make fried rice properly!"Zat snapped without looking back. He sat cross-legged in the air, floating right in front of Arga’s 14-inch tube television, which was already beginning to tint green with age. His neon blue eyes were fixed on the screen showing a late-night cooking show. To a djinn who had been trapped in a bottle for five centuries, watching a human chef swing a spatula was a form of magic far more fascinating than mountain-shattering spells.Outside, the sound of wood slamming against metal was deafening.THUD! THUD! THUD!"ARGA! GET OUT HERE, YOU BASTARD! DON’T THINK I’M SCARED OF YOUR LITTLE MAGIC TRICKS AT SCHOOL!"Mr. Bakri’s voice boomed, competing with the sound of a light rain starting to pelt the corrugated iron roof of the rented house. Arga stood behind the door, his hands shaking violently as he gripped a worn wooden beam. Behind him, Arga’s mother huddled on a bamboo cot, covering her ears tightly while so