THE PACKAGE WITH NO RETURN

The ring pulsed.

Black hadn't moved from his spot on the couch. Not really. Not since Azur'Raal vanished. The smoky tang of scorched cinnamon still clung to the air, but it was thinning, like a dream fading at sunrise.

His eyes locked onto the ring on his finger—gold, plain, almost modest if not for the crest etched into its surface: the axe crossing the sunburst. The same one from the wax seal on the package. The same one the genie—Azar? Azar-something—said was tied to his bloodline.

Black didn't know what disturbed him more: the fact that the lamp was now a ring, or that the ring felt... alive.

Testing the boundary between skepticism and recklessness, he muttered, "Wish I had a coin right now. Just... one."

The ring pulsed again.

And with a quiet ting, a single gold coin rolled onto the desk.

Black shot to his feet. "Nope. Nope nope nope nope nope."

He backed away as if the coin would grow legs and chase him. It didn't. It just sat there, impossibly real. Dull gold with a smooth face. No markings. No serials. Not even a country of origin.

He stared at it. Then at the ring.

"Okay. That happened."

His legs finally responded to logic, and he paced the apartment, rubbing his forehead like he could scrub the situation out of his skull. He passed the coin three times before snatching it up and inspecting it again. Solid. Warm.

Black exhaled slowly. Then he laughed, a short, shaky thing. "Right. Magic. Wishes. Supernormal reality hacks in jewelry form. Totally fine."

He sat again, hands shaking. He stared at the ring. "I need rules. I need... structure."

He grabbed a notebook and began scribbling a list:

Potential Wishes

Money

Teleportation?

Super strength (cliché but maybe useful?)

Fix climate change?

He paused. Drew a line through all of it.

"What should be done... not what can be done," he murmured, remembering Azur'Raal's warning. The genie wasn't bluffing. That smirk said he'd seen what happened when people wished selfishly. Probably more than once.

Black stared at his own handwriting. His life wasn't some comic book origin story. He was just a guy with a cursed heirloom and way too much responsibility now.

The ring pulsed again. Not warm this time. Just... attentive. As if it were listening.

He flinched. "You can't hear me, can you?"

The ring didn't answer. But somehow, silence felt like maybe.

By late afternoon, he couldn't take the cabin fever. He threw on his jacket and headed out.

The city hadn't changed. Still full of honking horns, sidewalk chatter, and the occasional whiff of hot pretzels. But Black noticed things. Subtle shifts. People glancing at his hand a moment too long. A man at the bus stop whose gaze flicked down to the ring, then away, too fast to be natural.

Across the street, someone in a charcoal coat crossed when he did. Matched his pace. Turned the same corners.

Paranoia? Maybe. But paranoia was starting to feel like a survival trait.

He ducked into a secondhand bookstore he knew well. The old woman behind the counter greeted him with a nod and went back to her crossword. He wandered between dusty shelves, pretending to browse.

In the corner mirror, he caught a glimpse of the man in the charcoal coat walking past the window. Not entering. Just watching.

Black gripped a random hardcover, hands damp.

"What did I get myself into?"

That night, sleep came slow and fractured. Dreams dragged him into surreal landscapes.

A tower rising from red sand, windows glowing with blue fire.

A field of mirrors that reflected strangers instead of himself.

A collapsing star spiraling into a golden ring.

And above it all, laughter. Azur'Raal's voice, echoing through impossible skies.

He jolted awake, gasping.

The ring glowed faintly.

Outside, the city slept. But Black couldn't shake the feeling that something was watching from the dark corner of his bedroom. Not malevolent. Just... aware.

The ring pulsed once. Cool. Calm.

And Black whispered, "I haven't even made a real wish yet."

In the silence, the lamp-turned-ring said nothing. But its weight on his finger was undeniable.

Something had begun.

And there would be no turning back.