It was just past midnight when the silence in the room changed.
It wasn't louder. It was heavier.
Rey sat at the kitchen table, hands clasped, eyes hollow. The candle beside him burned low, the flame leaning as if trying to reach him. Beans lay curled on the windowsill, quiet for once.
The teapot sat in the center of the table. Still. Harmless.
Until it wasn't.
A breath of smoke slipped from the spout. Then another. Blue. Slow. Purposeful.
Rey didn't flinch this time.
The smoke gathered in the air, forming arms, a head, a long swirling tail. The genie rose from it like a storm in slow motion, face unreadable, eyes lit with something ancient.
"You're ready."
It wasn't a question.
Rey nodded once.
The genie didn't grin. Didn't joke. Just looked at him — truly looked — and said, "Speak it. The universe is listening."
Rey's voice was hoarse, but steady.
"I want to live. I want to be healthy. I want a future."
Silence fell.
Then the genie spoke, voice deeper than thunder:
"Your wish is heard.
But this world is not made of bargains.
It is made of balance."
Smoke coiled tighter around them, wrapping the room in soft blue spirals. Dishes rattled. The walls hummed.
"You have 365 days," the genie said.
"One year to find a reason to live.
If you do… their life becomes yours.
If you don't… your time ends.
The wish is made. The wheel turns."
And then: boom.
The smoke burst outward like a silent explosion. The candle snuffed. Beans jolted upright. The room shook — just once — and then everything settled.
The teapot steamed gently, as if nothing had happened.
But Rey could feel it. In his chest. In his bones.
It had begun.
His body ached… less. His hands stopped trembling. His breath came easier. But his heart?
Still heavy.
He looked over at Beans.
"You heard that, right?"
Beans blinked slowly. Then turned in a circle and sat, crown slightly crooked.
Rey stared at the teapot again.
No way back now