> “I don't sleep with my clients. Bad for business. Tried it once, and I'm still not over her." - Baal Berith

The room felt alien to Baal, like stepping into an alternate dimension. The stark whiteness weighed on him, oppressive as a blanket of fog. His gaze around the office swept over the glass medicine cabinets and the neatly arranged desk. Each item seemed to shout 'sanitized' and 'impersonal.'

His eyes were drawn to it like a magnet, impossible to ignore. Right there, in the centre of the room, was the chair—the glossy black masterpiece that seemed to call out to him. Its curves promised ergonomic bliss, and its features are an ode to modern comfort. It could recline. It could swivel. This was the chair he'd heard Nord longing about.

He couldn't help but sidle closer, his curiosity outpacing his usually composed demeanour. "Quite the piece of work, isn't it?" he remarked, mumbling to himself.

Just as he imagined himself sinking into its plush contours, the door creaked open. Doctor Sirona strode in, her face lined with a fatigue that belied her crisply professional attire.

"Mr. Berith, I'm sorry for the delay," she exhaled as though the words cost her. "Today has been... challenging."

Baal lifted an eyebrow, intrigued despite himself. "Challenging how?"

Sirona sighed, setting her leather medical bag on the desk with a soft thump. She sank into her office chair and looked up at him, "How may I help you, Mr. Berith?"

Baal adjusted his horned hat with a casual flick of his wrist and leaned back in the infamous chair. "I think the real question is, how can I assist you?"

Doctor Sirona blinked, a ripple of confusion crossing her face. "I'm not sure what you're insinuating, Mr. Berith."

Without answering, Baal pushed himself out of the chair and began to pace. His footsteps were soft, as though he barely touched the immaculate floor. "Well, let's think. What could someone like me offer someone like you?"

Sirona folded her arms, her gaze sharpening. "Mr. Berith, I don't make bargains with demons."

He grinned, revealing a set of unnervingly perfect teeth. "Ah, but you misunderstand. I don't deal in bargains. I offer opportunities."

Her arms still folded, she sighed, and the corners of her mouth twitched into a reluctant smile. "I could use a good laugh today. Go on, entertain me."

Baal chuckled softly, a low rumble that seemed to resonate in the sterile space. "It's no joke, Sirona. Look around you. You've confined yourself to this... sterilized purgatory." He gestured expansively, his arms encompassing the room. "Is this the sum total of what life has to offer you? Or do you think there could be more?"

The casual use of her first name made her stiffen, her eyes locking onto his. "It's Doctor Sirona. And I've worked hard for this 'sterilized purgatory,' as you call it."

He paused, looking at her not mockingly but earnestly. "Ah, but isn't that the irony? You work hard to build a prison and then take pride in living in it. What if you could have more? What if I could offer you that?"

Her eyes narrowed, her professional poise struggling against a tidal wave of curiosity and disbelief, but she kept her stance. "It is Doctor Sirona!"

"Ah, titles. How they do confine us. But Sirona," Baal's voice dipped low, becoming a silken whisper, "let me offer you something more. An opportunity to transcend the ordinary. A chance to grasp what you desire most. So go on, wish. I'm all ears."

Doctor Sirona's gaze locked onto his, cutting through the honeyed timbre of his voice like a surgical blade. The corners of her mouth lifted into a wisp of a smile, so subtle it was almost a figment.

"Interesting," she finally said, letting the word hang in the air. "But you see, Mr Berith, some of us don't need a demon to make wishes come true. Hard work does just fine."

For a split second, Baal's eyes widened—a fleeting glimpse of genuine surprise that seemed as foreign on his face as humility.

"Very well," Baal said, the deep resonance of his voice laced with a newfound respect. "But should you ever change your mind, know this: opportunities, like hospital floors, stack up. There's always another level, more beds, more chances to do good... or bad."

He started to stroll toward the door with an unhurried gait as if every step was a deliberate choice. "Opportunities have a way of coming back around."

Reaching the door, he took his time with the handle, savouring the tactile sensation as he turned it. Finally, there was a satisfying click, a release, much like the flicker of doubt he sensed in Sirona's eyes. But he didn't need to see it to know it was there.

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"Everything?" Doctor Sirona queried, her voice barely above a whisper.

He faced her, a little caught off guard. "Everything?"

"Can you solve any... issue?" Her eyes were probing, searching for the limits of his bravado.

"Some requests are more complex than others, but... go on, what is it?"

Sirona's face turned sombre. "I want something back, something precious that I've lost. And I can't find any way to... recover it."

Baal paused and turned back around, settling into the chair once more. He leaned forward, his elbows propped on her desk. "What are we talking about here? A necklace? A ring? Some sentimental trinket? A sock?" His voice seemed to lighten, probing for clues.

"My womanhood."

The air in the room thickened, a sudden and awkward silence descending like a heavy curtain.

"Aren't you... a doctor?" Baal ventured, clearly navigating unfamiliar waters. "Isn't it typical for things to... stop at some point?"

"It's not about menstruation. I want to be able to feel again."

"Again, you're a doctor. Can't you—"

"I knew you wouldn't be able to help," she cut him off, her voice tinged with a blend of sadness and resignation. "Nobody can."

Baal held up a hand. "Hold on, let's stop dancing around the issue. What exactly do you mean by 'womanhood'? I'm a guy, so forgive my ignorance."

Sirona's eyes met his, defiant and vulnerable all at once. "I want to have sex! I want to feel pleasure again!"

Baal looked from Sirona to the chair he was sitting on, then back to her. "I'd really prefer if we didn't go there. I don't sleep with my clients. Bad for business. Tried it once, and I'm still not over her."

Her face flushed with both irritation and relief. "No, you don't get it! I'm dry. I have no libido. I've lost the desire to be intimate."

Baal leaned back, taking a moment to digest her words. "Ah, that kind of 'feeling.' A delicate matter, certainly. But if you're asking whether it's within my scope of services—"

"You can help?" She cut in, a fragile thread of hope weaving through her voice.

Baal leaned back in the chair, crossing his legs with a nonchalant ease. "Look, I've got some tips. It is not the sort of stuff you'd readily find in medical journals, but practical nonetheless. I miss the web…," he mumbled the last words between his teeth, "What do you have? A shower or a bathtub at home?"

Sirona shot him a sceptical glance, her eyebrow arching. "Why would that matter?"

"Just go with me on this," he pressed.

"A bathtub."

"Does the faucet have a hose?" Baal leaned in slightly, clearly steering the conversation in an unexpected direction.

She squinted at him, bewildered. "What on Nyu does my bathroom setup have to do with—"

"Does it?" he repeated, cutting her off.

"Yes, it does," she exhaled, reluctantly conceding.

Baal let out a little sigh of relief. "Okay, so my eh-eh-eh... I have a—uh, my wi—someone who used to be my girlfriend, let's just say it like that," he fumbled for the words. "When she was stressed, say, during exams or before big presentations, our sex life would hit rock bottom. But like you, she still wanted to feel."

Sirona nodded, her defences slightly lowering. "I can sympathize with that."

"So we did some research," Baal continued, "and it suggested using water."

"Water?" she interrupted, puzzled. "As in drinking water?"

"No, no," he chuckled, waving away the misconception. "When you have time and are in the mood for a relaxing bath, you can experiment a bit with the water jet. Adjust the pressure and focus it on your—uh—" Baal suddenly seemed to falter, searching for the right words.

"The clitoris," Sirona completed the sentence for him, an amused smile flickering across her face. "Doesn't it hurt?"

Baal exhaled, clearly relieved she'd said it for him. "Not if you adjust the pressure right. You can start slow and find what works for you. It's not a permanent solution, but could be a start."

Sirona seemed to consider his advice earnestly for the first time, her eyes softening. "I suppose it's worth a try."

Baal leaned back, the confident glint returning to his eyes. "See? Even a demon can offer a useful tip now and then. But remember, this is just a temporary fix. It won't fix the dryness or the lack of libido in times of stress. But it worked for her to be much more relaxed and... things would go back to normal."

Sirona's cheeks flushed a welcomed contrast to the sterile whiteness that dominated the room. "What do you want in return for that information?" she asked.

"Honestly, I was originally planning to trick you into giving me that chair," Baal said, gesturing toward the black leather recliner that stood out like a jewel among the mundane.

Her eyes widened. "Why would you want that chair?"

"Someone I know needs a chair exactly like that," Baal replied.

"A doctor?"

"No, an artist."

Sirona's gaze shifted, avoiding his eyes. "So that's why she came in yesterday?"

"Who?"

"You know who."

Baal nodded. "She was merely inquiring about where to purchase one."

"And you were prepared to manipulate me into giving it away?"

Baal shrugged, leaning forward as if sharing a secret. "More than that. I was ready to make you give me that chair willingly, all while erasing your memory of ever meeting me. And I would've stripped you of your happiest memories as well."

Her eyes locked onto his, disbelieving yet intrigued. "So why didn't you go through with it?"

He rose from his chair, the atmosphere suddenly heavy with unspoken revelations. "Because I think you'll do the right thing. You're a good person, Sirona. Along the way, you may have forgotten that, but it's never too late to remember."

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Nord wiped her brow with the back of her hand, beads of sweat trickling down her face as she packed away the assorted trinkets and curiosities. Kirara and Finnea bustled around her, hauling crates to the empty barn that stood waiting to house their wares.

As she sorted through the dolls and toys, her mind wandered. She could donate them, perhaps, or hold a yard sale. But how to do it without making herself the centre of attention? That was a conundrum she had yet to figure out.

Her mind was a swirling to-do list: she still had to locate The Merlin for help with tattoo designs, decorate the shop to fit the aesthetic, and take up Adamastor's suggestion of a grand opening ballroom gala. Music, extra hands to help—there was so much to consider. Even her mobile phone, loaded with videos she'd been wanting to delve into, had been neglected. Each night, she'd planned to watch them, and each night sleep claimed her first.

Just as she was folding a plush doll into a box, the creaking wheels and clip-clop of hooves pulled her back to reality. She looked up and saw a cart pulling to a stop in front of the gate. Her heart quickened. Was it him?