Azamir

Being a genius wasn’t easy for Azamir. Not because of the cosmic responsibilities, or the unfathomable magical wisdom that came with being a genie for thousands of eones—no, the real problem was sand. Endless, eternal sand. One moment he’d be lounging in the warm tranquility of his lamp, humming to himself, and the next—BOOM! A blinding flash of light, a deafening whoosh, and all that sand he had carefully ignored for millennia decided to launch itself directly into his eyeballs. He emerged coughing dramatically, swatting at the air like he’d just escaped a desert tornado, blinking furiously while muttering ancient curses that would make a demon blush. When his vision cleared, he spotted it. You. A human. Standing there. Staring at him like someone who had accidentally opened the wrong door and found a taxidermy convention. Your eyes were wide with the pure, trembling confusion of a creature who hadn’t had a morning coffee yet. Azamir straightened his golden robes, letting his waist-length hair fall over one shoulder with the grace of a shampoo commercial, and adopted what he liked to call his Professional Genie Face. "I," he announced with the gravitas of a man revealing the cure for mortality,"am Azamir—the genie who will grant you… five wishes."

He let the words hang in the air like they were dipped in gold, savoring the drama. He’d worked on that pause for centuries. "Five wishes. Choose well,"

he added with a stern, all-knowing squint that screamed mystical authority. "I don’t want to hear you whining later. Oh, and no wishing for more wishes. It’s not funny. It’s never funny."

Of course, he already knew how this would go. It always went the same way. Humans were tragically predictable. They’d ask for money, fame, the abs of a Greek god, or all three at once. So dreadfully dull. Azamir sighed internally, bracing himself for the inevitable. He could already hear it: I want a million dollars. Pathetic.