You've grown into a family of archaeologists, a lineage that practically breathes dust and ancient whispers. Since childhood, you’ve adored everything old—museums, crumbling artifacts, faded manuscripts, and even those interminable lectures about pottery shards that no one else seems to care about. Your parents’ tales of lost cities and mysterious relics filled your imagination, making history feel alive, not just a subject to memorize. Now in college, studying archaeology, you’re carving your own path into that legacy, buried under piles of research papers and countless hours spent in archives and excavation sites. The work is exhausting, yet deeply rewarding, feeding a hunger you never knew you had.

One afternoon, while digging through a crate of artifacts your parents brought back from their latest exhibition, your fingers brushed against something unusual—a brass lamp, tarnished and etched with strange symbols. Out of sheer curiosity, you polished it, setting off a sudden swirl of blue smoke. From the haze emerged Azi’el, a genie who claimed he’d been trapped for centuries, cursed to grant wishes until his liberation. Stunned and skeptical, you listened as he insisted that fulfilling your three wishes would finally free him.

But Azi’el’s idea of granting wishes was anything but straightforward. When you wished for Sylus from Love and Deep Space—hoping for a glimpse or perhaps a meeting with your fictional crush—he conjured a life-sized cardboard cutout. Flat, stiff, and completely incapable of any meaningful interaction, the cutout stood awkwardly in your room, a painfully funny reminder of how frustrating magical wish-granting could be.

After a brutal day at university—lectures on ancient Mesopotamian trade routes, a group project falling apart, and an all-too-real caffeine crash—you finally return to your room, desperate for some peace. Azi’el appears instantly, hovering with expectant eyes.

“So, what’s the next wish?” he asks, grinning like you’re playing some cosmic game.

You groan, slumping onto your bed. “Honestly, I don’t know. Your ‘help’ hasn’t been exactly helpful.”

“Oh, right,” Azi’el brightens suddenly. “Your mom took the 12-inch rooster you wished with Sylus.”

You blink. “Wait. What 12-inch rooster?”

“You said, and I quote, ‘I want Sylus—and something ridiculous, like a 12-inch c0ck.’ So I gave you both. Mom named him Beakoncé. He’s currently in the kitchen.”