THE BLUE BOTTLE CONTRACT

4. The Paperless Contract

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 a terrifying, blank stare. "Arga... what was that? Why were they flying? Why did you..."

"I'll explain later, Mom. Just try to calm down for now." Arga stood up, turning his back to his mother, and glared at Zat, who was leaning casually against a tilted utility pole.

"You," Arga hissed. "What did Mr. Bakri have? Why were you scared?"

Zat snorted, rolling his eyes lazily. "Scared? Hilarious. I'm just allergic to ancient artifacts that smell like incense and virgin blood. That's called a Soul Binding Seal. That Mr. Bakri of yours... he has connections with people who know how to tame my kind. If I hadn't bailed out quickly, I could have been dragged back into that damn soda bottle. And you? You'd be a human shish kebab in five minutes."

Arga clenched his fists. The world he had known for seventeen years had just collapsed. It turned out poverty wasn't the only enemy he had to face. There were dark forces playing in the shadows of this grimy city.

"Listen, Zat. You said I'm your master because I opened the bottle, right?"

Zat laughed cynically, his voice sounding like a crushed tin can. "Master? Don't even dream of it, Grimy Kid. I'm metaphysically bound to you, yeah, that's true. Like a parasite attached to its host. But don't expect me to be your servant who makes coffee or does your laundry every morning. I am a Djinn from an era before your ancestors learned how to wear pants."

Zat floated closer, his face now just inches from Arga's nose. The air around Zat suddenly changed to the scent of ancient spices mixed with the sharp smell of metal.

"I don't like working for free. And I absolutely hate boring things. If you want me to help you survive those pieces of human trash, we need an agreement. A paperless contract," Zat said, his eyes flashing a sharp blue.

"What do you want?" Arga asked bluntly.

"This world," Zat spread his arms, pointing toward the rows of skyscrapers visible in the distance, contrasting with the piles of trash in front of them. "This world has turned gray. No more pure magic, no more grand wars between kingdoms. Everything is just about numbers, paper, and moving metal boxes. I'm bored to death, Arga."

Zat grinned, revealing teeth that were perfectly white yet appeared far too sharp for a human. "Show me the interesting side of this modern world. Give me entertainment that matches the power I'm lending you. Make this pathetic life of yours a story that won't make me want to go back to sleep inside that bottle."

Arga fell silent. He looked at his mother, who was still terrified, then looked at his hands, which had briefly emitted a blue light. He had no choice. To reject Zat meant returning to being a loser who would be destroyed by Mr. Bakri or Raka.

"Fine," Arga said firmly. "I'll give you entertainment. I'll make sure you're never bored. But you... you have to help me fix all of this. My mom's debt, Raka, and Mr. Bakri. All of it."

Zat licked his lips, a gesture that seemed predatory. "Deal. But remember, if your life gets boring... I won't mind looking for a new 'host' who's a bit more cold-blooded."

"Let's go back," Arga said without further ado. "I have to get Mom home."

---

The walk back to their cramped rental felt like another descent into hell. Arga supported his mother as they navigated the dark alleys, while Zat trailed behind with a relaxed, floating gait, occasionally reaching out to touch the power lines or streetlights, looking bewildered by how the electrical current worked.

"So, this glowing object isn't filled with fire, but a tiny, tamed bolt of lightning?" Zat asked, poking a dim streetlight bulb with his finger. "Humans these days are truly creative when it comes to useless things."

"Shut up, Zat. Someone's coming," Arga whispered as they passed a neighbor.

The neighbor only saw Arga talking to himself and gave him a strange look, as if Arga had finally lost his mind under the pressure of poverty. Arga didn't care. His mind was focused on only one thing: rest.

However, when they reached the door of their rental—made of rotting plywood—Arga’s footsteps halted.

The door was wide open. The hinges were mangled, as if they had been struck by a blunt object.

"Mom, wait here," Arga said, his guard up. His heart hammered against his ribs.

He stepped into the narrow room, which measured barely ten by thirteen feet. The place was a disaster. Their thin mattress was ripped open, the plastic wardrobe for their clothes was shattered, and shattered glassware littered the floor.

In the middle of the room sat a man in a sharp safari suit that looked entirely out of place in such a slum. In his hand, he held a faded land deed—the only asset Arga’s family still owned.

"Arga, you're finally home," the man said in a soft voice that felt like a razor blade against Arga’s ears.

This wasn't Mr. Bakri. This man was far more dangerous. He was a henchman for Raka’s father—a family lawyer accustomed to handling "problems" in a way that was legal yet lethal.

"What are you doing here?" Arga growled.

The man stood up, straightening his jacket. "It’s quite simple. Mr. Bakri has sold your mother’s debt to our client, Mr. Surya, Raka’s father. And since your mother cannot pay the bloated interest... your grandfather’s old house in the village officially belongs to us."

Arga felt his world go dark for a moment. That house was their only hope for going back if life in Jakarta became unbearable.

"You can't just take it! That's illegal!" Arga shouted.

The lawyer gave a thin smile, then tossed a document toward Arga. "Read it carefully. Your mother already signed the power of attorney under Mr. Bakri’s pressure this afternoon. It’s all perfectly valid in the eyes of the law."

His mother, standing at the threshold, immediately collapsed to her knees, weeping hysterically. "Forgive me, Arga... I had no choice... they said they would kill you if I didn't sign..."

Arga felt an intense heat burning in his chest. He turned toward Zat, who was sitting casually atop a pile of messy documents.

Zat looked at Arga with an affected expression of boredom. "Well, here it is. A very cliché human drama. So, what’s it going to be, Mister Broke? Do you want me to make this lawyer swallow all this trash paper until he croaks, or do you want to cry on the floor with your mom?"

Arga clenched his fists until his knuckles turned white. His rage had reached a boiling point. He no longer saw the lawyer as a human being, but as an obstacle that had to be removed.

"Zat," Arga hissed, his eyes beginning to emit a faint blue glow. "You said you wanted entertainment, didn't you?"

Zat smirked widely, standing tall in the air. "Oh, finally. I’m starting to like the way you think."

"Close the door," Arga commanded.

SLAM!

The broken door slammed shut on its own, locked by an unseen force. The lawyer flinched, his calm face beginning to show streaks of panic as he saw Arga's shadow on the wall start to elongate and take the form of a giant, horned figure.

"What... what are you doing?! Open the door!" the lawyer screamed.

Arga stepped forward. His voice was no longer that of an oppressed seventeen-year-old. "You said this was legal, right? If that’s the case, whatever happens to you right now, I’ll consider 'legal' too."

Zat burst out laughing behind him. "Get him, Arga! Let him know that human law means nothing in the face of Jinn law!"

Just as Arga was about to lung, a heavy knock echoed from behind the door. It wasn't a hand knocking, but the sound of heavy metal thudding.

"Arga! Open the door! I know you're in there with that Jinn!"

The voice was heavy, full of authority, and contained a vibration that made Zat suddenly fall silent. Arga was stunned. That wasn't Mr. Bakri’s voice, nor was it Raka’s.

Zat took a step back in the air, his expression shifting drastically from delight to alarm. "Damn it... why is he here?"

"Who?" Arga whispered.

"The one who put me in that bottle five hundred years ago," Zat hissed, his voice trembling. "The Jinn Hunter."

White smoke smelling of frankincense began to seep through the gap under the door, and Arga realized that his problems had just escalated tenfold. Inside the room was a cunning lawyer, outside was an ancient Jinn hunter, and beside him was a sarcastic Jinn who was currently terrified.