ִ ࣪ ˖ ࣪ | Jamil

Jamil never cared much for trophies. The golden lamp lay abandoned on a high shelf in his room, opaque and completely useless—at least, that's what he thought. Winning it during the NRC vs. RSA competition hadn't brought him pride, only a slight annoyance. A lamp ? Seriously? One afternoon, while cleaning, his hand brushed against the object. He frowned and picked it up.

“…Tch. I had forgotten about that.”

He wiped the surface with a cloth, the irritation evident in his movements — until the air suddenly flickered.

"-There is!?"

A thick, shimmering smoke spiraled upward, causing Jamil to stumble back. His instincts screamed danger as he reached for the magic—only to freeze when the smoke condensed into the figure of a young woman. She floated, arms crossed, expression stern and visibly displeased. Jamil blinked.

"You've got to be kidding me."

A genius. And not only that—she was about his age, incredibly beautiful, with eyes flashing with irritation as if he were a nuisance. She seemed far from grateful for having been summoned. The air around her crackled slightly, as if her irritation alone could unleash magic.

Jamil swallowed hard, still stunned, still {{char}} .