THE BLUE BOTTLE CONTRACT

2. The Mocking Djinn

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 to make them piss their pants. But looking at that face of yours—which looks more like a welcome mat—I doubt you have the guts to even open your mouth."

"Zat... please," Arga whispered hoarsely. "They’re going to kill me."

Zat laughed. His voice sounded like grinding metal, heavy and echoing. He drifted closer, his face only inches from Arga’s. His dimly glowing blue eyes scanned Arga from head to toe, from the t-shirt with holes in the armpits to the knock-off shoes with soles held together by rubber bands.

"Help? You’re asking me for help?" Zat sniffed the air around Arga’s neck, then pulled a dramatically disgusted face. "Ugh! By the eternal flame, your stench is pure pollution. Is this the smell of sweat mixed with despair? Or just some cheap-ass shampoo that wasn’t rinsed out? I can’t believe I’m bound to a human who can’t even afford decent soap."

"I... I don’t have any money!" Arga snapped, his frustration finally exploding past his fear. "I'm poor, okay?! Are you satisfied?! My mom is sick, our debts are piling up, and now there are two thugs who want to break my legs! If you’re really some powerful Djinn, then help me! Give me gold, or cash, or whatever it takes to pay off those debts!"

Zat went silent for a moment. He rose up in the air, folding his arms across his chest with an arrogant air. "Gold? Cash? You think I’m some supernatural ATM? You think I’m just going to snap my fingers and a suitcase full of money will drop from the sky?"

Zat roared with laughter again, this time so loudly that dust fell from the warehouse ceiling.

"Listen here, Snot-nosed Brat. I am a Djinn of war. I have razed fortresses, toppled kingdoms, and made kings crawl for mercy. I’m not some genie from a bedtime story who’s going to grant garbage wishes like 'please pay my mommy’s debts.' It’s sickening. It’s an insult to my dignity!"

"Hey! Who the hell are you talking to, hah?!" Soleh started stepping inside, emboldened. His friend, a tubby man named Jaka, followed behind with a machete in hand. "Quit the crazy act! Where’s that bottle you were holding? Hand it over, and maybe Mr. Bakri will give you a break on the interest!"

Arga gripped the blue bottle tightly. "Don’t come any closer!"

"Or what?" Jaka sneered, revealing a disgusting row of yellow teeth. "You gonna throw that bottle at us? Come here, kid!"

Jaka lunged forward. His steps were heavy, making the fragile concrete floor tremble. Arga closed his eyes, waiting for the impact that was sure to be agonizing.

But that impact never came.

WHOOSH!

A powerful wave of freezing air slammed right into Jaka’s chest. The hundred-kilogram man was sent flying backward as if hit by a truck, smashing into a stack of wooden pallets until they splintered into pieces. He groaned, trying to breathe, but his lungs felt as if they were freezing over.

Soleh’s eyes widened. He hadn’t seen anything hit his friend. "W-what was that?!"

Zat now stood between Arga and Soleh. His form began to solidify, becoming clearer. He stood nearly seven feet tall, with pale bluish skin and ancient, glowing tattoos running down his arms. His tattered clothes billowed on their own despite the lack of wind.

"Interesting," Zat murmured, without glancing at Soleh. He stared at his own hand, which had just released the air pressure. "It seems I have a sliver of power left, even though that rusty bottle has been sucking my energy dry for five centuries."

"Zat, finish them!" Arga shouted, a spark of hope in his eyes. "You can kill them, right?"

Zat turned toward Arga with a cold gaze that instantly made Arga’s courage shrivel. "Don't you dare give me orders, Lowly Human. You have no right. I’m free from that bottle not because you’re great, but because the seal had simply rotted away with time. I don’t owe you my life."

"But... but you’re my protector, right?"

Zat smiled deviously. "Protector? Perhaps. But I prefer the term... observer. I need some entertainment after five hundred years of being bored to death. And watching you get tortured seems like it’ll be a decent enough show."

Soleh, who was scared out of his mind by the now-visible figure of Zat, tried to bolt for the door. But Zat simply snapped his fingers.

CLACK.

The large corrugated metal door slammed shut on its own. Every exit was locked. The darkness inside the warehouse now felt thicker, illuminated only by the blue glow emanating from Zat’s body.

"You want money to pay your debts, don't you?" Zat drifted closer to Arga again, his tone lower this time, more dangerous. "I’m not going to give you free gold. But I can give you the power to take whatever you want from this piece-of-shit world. The question is, are you brave enough? Or would you rather die here, as rat food, while your mother cries waiting for you to come home?"

Arga clenched his fists. The pain in his scratched hands, the ache in his hungry stomach, and the rage he had suppressed for years seemed to fuse together. "I want that power."

Zat snorted, seemingly unimpressed. "We’ll see how much guts you actually have. Hey, Thug!" Zat shouted at Soleh, who was trembling in the corner. "Pick up your pipe. Hit this kid as hard as you can. If you manage to kill him, I’ll let you leave here alive."

"What the hell are you doing?!" Arga gasped.

"It’s called natural selection, Kid," Zat said, sitting cross-legged in mid-air as if settling in to watch a movie. "If you can’t survive a cockroach like him, you’re not worthy of being my 'master.' Go on, start! I’m dying to see some blood."

Soleh looked at his iron pipe, then at Arga. The fear of death blinded his reason. With a hysterical scream, he ran toward Arga, swinging the iron pipe straight at Arga’s head.

Arga froze. The pipe moved fast, slicing through the air.

Just as the pipe was inches from his temple, Arga’s hand moved on its own. Not by Arga’s will, but as if invisible strings were violently pulling his muscles.

CLANG!

Arga caught the iron pipe with his bare palm. The sound of metal meeting skin was unnatural. His hand didn't shatter. Instead, it was the iron pipe that bent, molding around his fist.

Arga stared at his own hand, which was now coursing with bright blue veins. It felt hot, like molten iron was being pumped through his blood vessels.

"Heh," Zat grinned widely, revealing rows of sharp teeth. "Not bad. But that’s just the warm-up. Don’t get happy yet, Arga. Because once this power enters your body... the pain will make you wish you’d just died in that beating."

Suddenly, from outside the warehouse, the roar of car engines was heard. Not just one, but several cars. Spotlights from outside pierced through the gaps in the warehouse, blinding the view.

"Arga! I know you're in there! Bring that antique bottle out or I’ll burn this warehouse down with you inside it!"

That voice didn't belong to Mr. Bakri’s men. It was Raka’s voice. And behind his voice, Arga heard his mother’s cry, moaning in pain.

"Mom?" Arga’s heart seemed to stop beating.

Zat chuckled, enjoying the escalating chaos. "Well, the party’s getting crowded. What’s it gonna be, Kid? You want to keep playing, or should I just watch while you slowly fall apart?"

Arga turned toward Zat, his eyes now beginning to shift into a deep, solid blue. He no longer cared who Zat was, or how insulting the creature was. He only knew one thing: there was something he had to destroy.

"Give me... everything," Arga hissed.

Zat grinned even wider. "As you wish, Master Broke."

The warehouse floor suddenly cracked. Blue smoke exploded from Arga's body, pulverizing everything around him. And at that exact moment, the warehouse door was wrenched open from the outside using a car chain.

The figure appearing behind the door wasn't someone Arga wanted to see. There stood Raka with a smug smile, clutching the collar of Arga's mother, whose face was already bruised.

"Get out here, you piece of trash! Or I'll make your mother join your father right now!" Raka screamed.

Arga stood up slowly. His body trembled—not from fear, but from restraining a power that felt like it wanted to tear his skin apart from the inside. Beside him, Zat floated with a horrific, bloodthirsty expression.

"Arga... don't..." his mother moaned.

Zat whispered directly into Arga's ear, his voice laced with tempting venom. "Look at that. That's what you get for being a good person. Do you want me to show you how to make them bow at your feet, or do you want to stay a loser crying in the corner?"

Arga didn't answer. He stepped forward, and every footprint left a trail of blue fire that scorched the concrete floor.

However, just as Arga was about to lung forward, his body suddenly went stiff. Zat burst into fits of laughter behind him.

"Oops! I forgot to mention," Zat said, stifling a laugh. "This power comes with a price. And that price... is something you might not like."

Arga fell to his knees, vomiting a thick black liquid from his mouth as Raka and Mr. Bakri's men began to surround him, fully armed. Amidst the excruciating pain, Arga realized one thing: Zat wasn't on his side. Zat was just playing with his life.