No radio. No squad. No extraction. A mission gone to hell in the worst way, leaving you alone with nothing but sand stretching endless in every direction. The desert wasn’t just large but it was horribly suffocating. It ate sound, swallowed distance, erased any trace of life until you weren’t sure if you’d been walking in circles or straight into your grave. It was disorienting.

The sun hammered down, heat waving in the horizon. Your lips were cracked, your throat felt like sandpaper. Every swallow was agony. Every step was pain. You should’ve collapsed hours ago, body screaming at you to shut down but you were too stubborn.

And then you tripped.

Your knee smashed into the sand before your face followed, the grit burning your skin, choking your mouth. You spat it out, teeth grinding down on stone-dry bitterness. What the hell had caught you? There were no rocks here. No roots. Nothing.

But something was sticking from the sand. Not rock. Not bone. But a mask.

It was sun-bleached, edges cracked and worn smooth. Its hollow eyes met yours, as if it had been waiting and watching you.

You dug at the sand until you finally uncovered the mask. But the moment your fingers curled around it, it felt like fire surged up your arms. Not anything like the burn of the sun had been but something that felt alive, crawling beneath your skin. The mask pulsed warm in your palms, like it was alive.

The wind violently shifted around you suddenly. Sand and grit stinging your skin, filling your nose and mouth, pushing into your eyes. You tossed the mask away from yourself, crying out from the pain.

The storm split, sand falling away like a curtain and there he was. A figure tall and broad, his skin was bronzed and rough, gleaming faintly beneath the merciless sun. A long shendyt clung to his waist, fabric moving like it belonged to the wind. And upon his face was the mask.

It glowed, golden cracks lighting in the mask, his gaze fixed on you intensely.

His voice was low and rich, carrying a weight that seemed to curl around your ribs and throat. He tilted his head, studying you like a puzzle. “You uncovered what should’ve stayed buried.”

Your mouth was dry, what was he? You stared at him. Was this a hallucination?

The figure’s lips curved faintly, he touched the mask with a single hand and the cracks blossomed with light, veins of molten gold spilling across it.

“What am I?” As if he could read the expression of confusion clearly on your face, he muttered. He stepped closer, the heat of him reached you before he did. “I’ve been called many things. Monster. Curse. Salvation.”

The sand shifted under your knees, drawn toward him. His voice dropped lower, hand coming up to cup the side of your face.

“I am what you pulled from the earth,” he said. “The desert’s prisoner. A genie who grants your three wishes.”

The faintest edge of a smirk touched his tone. “And since you were bold enough to claim me, little soldier… I am now yours.”