The first sign that something had shifted came quietly, like a ripple across still water.
Asher was halfway through his shift at the docks, tying ropes on the ship, when the lights flickered. It wasn't unusual; the ship was old, the wiring unreliable. But this time the flicker seemed deliberate, as if the shadows lingered too long, watching.
He glanced at the clock. Two more hours until his shift was over. His chest tightened. Since that night in the abandoned house, since the test with the flame, he hadn't stopped feeling… observed. Not by people—his coworkers were too busy gossiping in the back—but by something heavier, something unseen.
He didn't need to guess who.
"Don't ruin this for me," Asher muttered under his breath, setting down a crate with more force than necessary.
The ship owner blinked, then hurried away.
Zahran's voice brushed against his ear like silk. "Ruin what? Your perfectly average day tying ropes forpeople who don't even bother to learn your name?"
Asher's hand stilled. Heat pooled at the back of his neck. Zahran's presence was not physical, not entirely—but it pressed close, intimate, impossible to ignore.
"You can't just… show up here," Asher hissed quietly, hoping no one noticed him talking to thin air.
"Can't I?" Zahran's tone carried a smirk. "I told you, little mortal, I go where you go. That is the nature of the bond. Unless, of course, you'd rather use a wish to send me away."
The thought lingered like temptation, but Asher shoved it aside. Wishing was a trap.
Instead, he ignored him. Or tried to.
But ignoring Zahran was like trying not to notice a fire in the middle of a dark room.
It started small—ropes losing on there own, crates sliding from one place to another.
Then it escalated.
The ship owner, irritated over the wait, shoved Asher. "is this how you handle people's goods."
Asher forced a polite smile, taking the crate Before he could turn, the lid popped off on its own, expensive goods scattered all over the ship
The ship went silent.
The man cursed loudly, glaring at Asher. "What the hell is wrong with you?!"
Asher froze. He hadn't even touched the lid. He opened his mouth to protest, but Zahran's laughter rippled through his mind, rich and amused.
"No one speaks to you like that," the Djinn purred. "Not while I'm watching."
"You—" Asher clenched his jaw, fighting the urge to scream at thin air. His heart hammered. "Stop it."
"Why should I?" Zahran asked, his voice lower now, almost tender. "Why should I let them belittle you when I could remind them what it means to fear?"
The captain stormed closer, still cursing, and Asher caught the dock manager giving him a sharp look.
Perfect. Just perfect.
By the end of the shift, Asher was exhausted. He walked home beneath the dim glow of streetlights, shoulders tense, every shadow at the edge of his vision carrying Zahran's silhouette.
Finally, he couldn't hold it in.
"You're going to ruin my life," he muttered. "One more stunt like that, and I'll lose my job."
Zahran appeared this time—not as a voice, but as a figure of smoke and fire, coalescing beside him as they walked. Mortals passing by couldn't see him, but Asher could. All too clearly.
"You speak as if this life is worth clinging to," Zahran said softly. His golden eyes glimmered in the dark. "You wake, you work, you return to an empty little apartment you called home. You sleep. Where is the joy in that, Asher?"
Asher's breath caught. He wanted to argue, but the words stuck in his throat. Because Zahran wasn't entirely wrong.
"This is my life," he said instead. "And you don't get to decide if it's worth anything."
Zahran tilted his head, studying him. For a moment, the mischievous smirk faded, replaced by something gentler, almost curious.
"Then let me give you something more," he murmured. "Not a wish. Not a trick. Just… something to remind you you're alive."
Before Asher could step back, Zahran brushed his hand near his arm—not touching, not quite. The air sparked, warmth crawling over Asher's skin like the ghost of a caress.
Asher's breath hitched. His pulse jumped. It wasn't a trick of magic; it was intimacy. Real. Unnerving.
He forced himself to look away. "You're trying to mess with me."
"Perhaps." Zahran's grin returned, but softer than before. "Or perhaps I simply enjoy seeing you burn a little."
The next days blurred into a pattern Asher didn't know how to break.
Zahran was everywhere.
When Asher wored late into the night, the Djinn's voice whispered over his shoulder, teasing his mistakes. When he walked through the market, shadows bent unnaturally toward him, as if Zahran didn't want him lost in the crowd. When a stranger bumped into him too harshly, the man tripped on thin air moments later, landing face-first in the dust.
It should have terrified Asher. Maybe it did. But beneath the fear, something else lingered. A heat that wasn't entirely unwelcome.
Because for all his chaos, Zahran was always there. Watching. Guarding. Even if it came in the form of sabotage.
And Asher—lonely, guarded, tired of existing like a ghost—wasn't sure he hated it.
That night, as he lay in bed, sleep refusing to come, Asher whispered into the darkness:
"Why me?"
Silence. For a moment, he thought Zahran wouldn't answer. Then the Djinn's voice drifted low, almost like a secret.
"Because you didn't want me."
Asher's heart lurched.
"All others begged. Cried. Demanded. You looked me in the eyes and said no." Zahran's form shimmered faintly at the foot of the bed, golden gaze burning. "Do you know how rare that is, little mortal? Do you know how tempting?"
Asher swallowed, throat dry.
"Tempting?" he echoed.
Zahran stepped closer, the air growing warmer. "To be wanted, not for power. Not for wishes. Just… for who I am."
The words hung heavy between them.
For a heartbeat, Asher thought Zahran would touch him, would close the distance. His chest tightened, unsure if he would resist—or let it happen.
But then Zahran smiled, sharp and knowing, and disappeared into smoke.
Leaving Asher wide awake, heart racing, caught between fear and longing.