Chapter One: Shadows in the Quarter
The humid air of New Orleans clung to Hope Mikaelson like a second skin as she slipped through the back alleys of the French Quarter. It was late—too late for honest folk, but perfect for someone like her, scraping by on wits and whispers. Season five of her life felt like an endless episode: the Hollow's fragments gnawing at her insides, her family scattered like ashes in the wind. Klaus was off painting his rage somewhere, Elijah playing the eternal martyr, Rebekah chasing distractions. And Hope? She was the ticking bomb they all pretended not to see.
She adjusted the hood of her jacket, pulling it low over her eyes. The black-market dealer she'd been tracking for weeks operated out of a crumbling Creole townhouse on Rampart Street, the kind of place where voodoo dolls hung like wind chimes and the air smelled of sage and regret. Hope had a con running tonight—a fake artifact swap to get close enough to lift what she really needed: a grimoire fragment rumored to hold clues about containing the Hollow without losing herself.
The door creaked open under her careful push, revealing a dimly lit parlor crammed with shelves of dusty relics. Bottles of iridescent potions lined one wall, while taxidermied ravens perched on another. The dealer, a wiry witch named Margot with tattoos snaking up her arms like vines, lounged behind a scarred oak table, shuffling a deck of tarot cards.
"Evening, cher," Margot drawled, her eyes narrowing as she took in Hope's shadowed figure. "What brings a lone wolf to my den? Looking for love potions or something to curse your enemies?"
Hope forced a smile, stepping into the flickering candlelight. She pulled a small, ornate box from her satchel—the bait, a forged amulet she'd lifted from a tourist trap and enchanted just enough to pass muster. "Heard you deal in the real stuff. This for that grimoire page on spirit binding."
Margot's laugh was low and skeptical. She snatched the box, popping it open to inspect the amulet. Her fingers traced the runes, and for a moment, Hope's heart pounded—had she overdone the glamour? But the witch nodded, satisfied, and rummaged beneath the table. "Clever girl. Page is yours, but throw in a favor later. Deals like this don't come free."
As Margot turned to fetch the grimoire, Hope's eyes darted to a cluttered shelf in the corner. Amid the jumble of brass astrolabes and crystal orbs sat an unassuming brass lamp, tarnished and etched with faded Arabic script. It hummed faintly in her witch senses, like a dormant spell waiting to uncoil. Curiosity tugged at her—artifacts like that weren't junk. They were traps or treasures.
While Margot's back was turned, Hope palmed the lamp, tucking it into her jacket with the ease of someone who'd survived too many close calls. The grimoire page exchanged hands moments later, and Hope was out the door before the witch could blink, melting into the night.
Her rented room above a jazz club on Bourbon Street was a far cry from the Mikaelson compound's opulence—just a sagging bed, a hot plate, and wards scratched into the floorboards to keep the Hollow's whispers at bay. Hope dropped the grimoire page on the rickety table and examined her stolen prize. The lamp was heavier than it looked, cool against her palms. She traced the etchings, feeling a faint pulse of ancient magic.
"What are you?" she murmured, more to herself than anything. Wiping dust from the spout with her sleeve, she half-expected nothing. But as her thumb rubbed a stubborn spot, the air thickened. Smoke billowed from the spout—not acrid, but shimmering like heat haze over desert sands. It coalesced into a figure, tall and imposing, materializing in the center of the room.
He was... not what she'd imagined. No billowing robes or booming voice. Instead, a man in his apparent thirties, dressed in simple dark linens that hugged a lean, muscled frame. His skin was olive-toned, hair black and cropped short, eyes a piercing hazel that seemed to hold centuries. He stood with arms crossed, regarding her with quiet intensity, as if she'd interrupted his nap rather than summoned a legend.
"You have freed me from my vessel," he said, his voice smooth and accented faintly with something old-world—Persian, maybe, or older. "I am bound to grant your wishes, mistress. Speak them, and they shall be done."
Hope froze, the lamp slipping from her fingers to clatter on the floor. Her instincts screamed trap—another curse, another complication in a life already fraying at the edges. She backed up a step, hand instinctively reaching for the knife in her boot. "What the hell? Genie? Like, actual genie? This is some witch's prank."
He didn't move, didn't smirk or plead. Just watched her, his expression unreadable. "No prank. I am what the tales call djinn, though the stories twist truths into fables. You rubbed the lamp. I appear. The rules are simple: wish, and I grant. No limits to my power, no tricks in the granting—unless you demand them. The number of wishes? That is mine to decide."
Her mind raced. Unlimited power. In her hands. The Hollow could be gone in an instant—family whole, life normal. But normal wasn't for Mikaelsons. And power like that? It always came with strings. She'd seen her father's deals sour, her aunt's spells backfire. "Prove it," she challenged, voice steady despite the tremor in her chest. "Wish for... I don't know. A sandwich."
The air shimmered again, and suddenly a plate appeared on the table—fresh po'boy, shrimp still steaming, bread crisp. The scent hit her, making her stomach growl despite the tension. She poked it warily, then took a bite. Real. Perfect.
"Okay," she said around a mouthful, buying time. "That's... impressive. But I'm not wishing for anything big. Not yet. Or ever. I didn't ask for this."
He inclined his head, the barest hint of amusement in his eyes—but no push, no seduction. "As you wish. Or do not. I cannot act without your command. I will wait."
Hope set the sandwich down, wiping her hands on her jeans. The Hollow stirred faintly inside her, a cold whisper of malice, but for the first time in months, she didn't feel entirely alone. This genie—he wasn't offering the world. He was offering silence, if she wanted it. And in the quiet of her room, with jazz notes drifting up from below, she realized she might just take him up on that.
She didn't know his name yet. Didn't know the weight of his restraint. But as he faded back into wisps of smoke, coiling into the lamp without protest, Hope felt the first crack in her isolation. Not hope, exactly. But possibility.
What would you like to expand next? Chapter Two, where Hope grapples with the genie's presence during her daily survival in New Orleans, or perhaps outline more details for Act I?