Baal's eyes snapped open, plunging him into an unsettling darkness. He extended an arm to the other side of the bed, expecting to touch the warm curve of Nord's body. It was empty. A ripple of anxiety washed over him. The absence of any visible clock only heightened his sense of unease, but a subtle clinking of metal and glass seemed to drift up from downstairs.

Moving stealthily to avoid any creaking floorboards that might disturb the sleeping world, Baal navigated his way through the shadowy corridor and down the stairs.

A shard of light leaked from beneath the closed door of the tattoo shop. The light seemed out of place, like a beacon in the midst of nocturnal stillness.

He opened the door, and the sight that met him halted his steps. There was Nord, sitting on the floor, her back against the tattoo chair. She was surrounded by an array of small trinkets—rings, lockets, odd bits of colourful glass. Her hands sifted through them with trembling motions. She finally looked up at him when he approached, her eyes hollow, haunted.

It hit him, then. The Hollow was getting hungrier, and it was consuming Nord from the inside.

"Nord?" His voice broke the silence, coated with a heavy layer of concern. "Is it bad tonight?"

Her eyes were like coals that had burned too long locked on his gaze, "It's starving, Baal," she croaked, still cradling a locket in her trembling hands. "I can feel it gnawing at me."

Baal sank to his knees beside her, his eyes scanning the objects scattered across the floor. "Come to bed."

"It's not enough," she murmured, the words chilling in their resignation, "It's not enough."

Baal felt a tightening in his chest as he looked at her. The Nord he knew—the fiery, effervescent woman—seemed to be crumbling from within, deteriorated by this insatiable parasite.

Since Adamastor's resurrected return a few months ago, the Hollow had grown exponentially greedier, draining away at all the magical objects Nord could scrape together.

Something had changed. Baal could sense it in how she'd been drawing into herself, becoming more aloof, retreating even from him. His suspicions about the content on her phone nagged at him. Still, every attempt to delve into it had been hindered, leaving him feeling helpless. He knew the answer lay within. But why was she keeping it all for herself?

"Nord, come to bed," he said again, this time with more urgency as if the simple act of moving from this room could sever the invisible tendrils of the Hollow. "I don't think there's anything left here for it to feed on. And you're freezing."

She shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as if she could physically hold together the fragments of her being. "I'm scared, Baal. It's getting stronger, and I don't know if I can keep this up. It's too much."

He moved closer, wrapping his arms around her trembling form, trying to lend her his own warmth, his own strength. "Nord, you're freezing," Baal pulled her closer. "You can't keep doing this."

She let out a quiet, breathless laugh. "I don't have a choice, do I?"

The room seemed to tighten around them, and Baal felt his frustration rising.

"Actually, you do," Baal insisted, his voice stronger now, "I know you're holding something back, Nord. Ever since Adamastor returned, it's like you've pulled away into a shell. Is it connected to this? To the Hollow?"

She looked at him, her eyes flickering as if debating whether to let him in on whatever secret she'd been carrying. "It's complicated, Baal."

"So uncomplicate it. Is it about Adamastor? Is it about me?. You're not just feeding the Hollow. You're starving yourself—starving me too. And I can't stand by and watch that happen," Baal implored, each word a raw nerve, each sentence an act of emotional exposure, "I want to know we'll be okay... I mean, you'll be okay. If you're okay, well, I'm okay too."

Nord's eyes met his, and for a moment, he saw the flicker of decision—the weighing of options in a split second. Then, finally, her shoulders sagged.

"Alright," she whispered, the word filled with a reservoir of meanings. "Alright, but not tonight. Tonight, I… not tonight."

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The tattoo machine buzzed like a persistent insect, its needle dipping into the skin, then pulling away, leaving a sliver of dark ink in its wake. Nord's hand moved with practised finesse, even as her eyes betrayed signs of fatigue.

The design was intricate—a squid intricately entwining a skull—and her client, a sturdy Puck, had chosen his scalp as the canvas for the art, nearly breaking her needle twice in the process.

Unauthorized duplication: this tale has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

The door opened with the tinkling of a small bell, and Sirona unexpectedly walked in. Her eyes took in the scene—Nord engrossed in her work and Puck trying to hold still, not showing his pain but his hoove slamming the floor a couple of times, the atmosphere thick with the scent of antiseptic and ink.

"Do you have an opening today?" Sirona asked, her eyes locking onto Nord's.

Nord glanced at the clock, then at her nearly completed tattoo. "Give me five more minutes, and you're on," she said, her voice laced with a professional calm even as her hands continued the delicate line over the Puck's horn.

Sirona smiled. "Fantastic. You see, I went to Covenhelm and came across this incredible chess set. It's remarkable, except for one tiny detail—the figurines move on their own."

A flicker of interest lit up Nord's tired eyes. "Living chess pieces? Now, that's not something you see every day."

"Exactly," Sirona replied, her voice tinged with both amusement and a sliver of concern. "It's fascinating but unnerving. I'd love to actually play the game without becoming a part of it."

Nord wiped away excess ink from the Puck's head and took a step back, examining her work. "Alright, this should do it," she declared, satisfied. She reached for a clean cloth to dab a final touch of antiseptic on the freshly inked design. "How does it look?"

The Puck examined his horn in the mirror, a grin splitting his face. "It's bloody amazing, Nord. Worth every moment."

"Great. That'll be all for now. Take care of that tattoo, and try not to get any sunlight for a couple of weeks."

The hum of the tattoo machine died down as Nord flicked it off, pulling off her gloves with a snap. The Puck had just sauntered out, a fresh etching tattoo on his skull and one of the tendrils spiralling around his horn.

"Alright, Sirona, you're next. Let's jazz up that chessboard you've been ranting about," she said, reaching for a clean cloth to wipe down the leather chair that had just been vacated.

Sirona flashed her a sidelong grin. "Actually, I was thinking more along the lines of tea than tattoos today."

Nord paused, raising an eyebrow as she cleaned her needle with sanitiser. "Tea? What's the chessboard doing here then?"

"Ah, that," Sirona said, circling the chair like a predator sizing up its prey. "It's a gift. I just wanted to catch up, you know, as friends do."

Nord shot her a sceptical glance as she began to sanitise the tabletop. "I'm fine, Sirona. Really, I am."

"No, you're not." Sirona's voice dropped an octave, losing its playful lilt. "You've got bags under your eyes, your lips are dry as a desert, and Baal came to my office practically begging me to talk to you. That doesn't spell 'fine' to me."

The words hung heavy in the room, suspended like the mist of disinfectant Nord had just sprayed. "So, what's this? An intervention?"

Sirona lowered herself onto the chair, her expression earnest. "No, it's a concern. From both of us."

Putting the disinfectant aside, Nord met Sirona's gaze for the first time since their conversation had turned serious. "I can take care of myself."

"But you're fraying at the edges, Nord. We all see it. Even Kirara must have noticed by now."

"Kirara is a cat. If it isn't chicken, she doesn't make any judgment," Nord quipped, but her eyes flickered, revealing a shard of vulnerability she usually concealed.

Sirona leaned in, locking eyes with Nord. "You're so busy filling other people's cups you've let yours run dry. What's weighing you down?"

Nord sighed deeply, the weight of her admission mingling with the stale air of the tattoo studio. She massaged her temples as if she could knead the tension out of her own thoughts. "The Hollow's restless. I can't seem to satiate it, and it's wearing me down. Satisfied?"

Sirona tilted her head, her eyes softening. "Rosemary had that same strained look on her face, that same bite in her voice after Frank passed. She was in pain. Real, gut-wrenching pain." She sidled up next to Nord and rested a hand on her shoulder, its warmth seeping through the fabric of her blouse. "So, what's gnawing at you, Nord?"

"Besides the Hollow?" Nord buried her face in her arm for a moment, the inked designs that decorated her skin a vibrant contrast to her pallor. When she lifted her head, her eyes were misty, and she looked directly at Sirona. "I think I lied to Baal. And what's worse is that I don't even remember what it was. He has that piece of memory somewhere in a jar, not me. How can I even face him? How can I build a relationship, a life with a man when there's a lie between us—especially one that I don't even remember? How am I supposed to let him in?"

Sirona was about to respond, but her gaze flicked to the back door of the studio, capturing Nord's attention. Following her line of sight, Nord's heart sank when she saw Baal standing there. His eyes were wide, like saucers filled to the brim with a concoction of confusion and hurt. Without uttering a word, he turned on his heel and walked out, the door swinging shut behind him with a soft thud.

The room felt suddenly colder as if the temperature had plummeted with Baal's departure. Nord's eyes welled up further, this time with tears that spilt over the brim. "I suppose he heard all that."

Sirona squeezed Nord's shoulder, her grip firm but gentle. "Maybe it's for the best."

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The sky was a swirl of warm hues, crimson and amber clashing and mingling as the sun bowed out for the day. Sirona found Baal leaning against the wall of the manor, his eyes lost in the twilight tapestry above him.

"Baal?"

He looked down, pulling his hands from his pockets momentarily before slipping them back in. "Hey. How is she?"

"She's...fragile," Sirona answered, her eyes narrowing as she searched for the right words. "She reminds me of Rosemary towards the end. It's unsettling. The Hollow is getting the better of her. But I've found a magical relic that might just give her some... peace."

Baal's gaze dropped to his feet, where he was absently nudging a small pebble with the tip of his shoe. "I don't know how to help her without making it worse. I don't want to be another weight on her shoulders. I want her to... you know."

Sirona was about to offer some consoling words, but something about Baal's demeanour gave her pause. There was a flicker in his eyes, a glimmer that wasn't there a moment before. His lips were taut as if suppressing a grin.

"What's going on in that twisted mind of yours, you demon?"

Baal looked up, his eyes ablaze with a fire that seemed to dance in time with the sinking sun. The grin he'd been holding back burst forth, as unrestrained as a wildfire. "She said she wanted to build a life with me, Sirona. Do you have any idea what that means to me? That's huge! That's monumental! That's...that's progress of the highest order."

Sirona shook her head, a reluctant smile pulling at the corners of her mouth. "You really are a piece of work, you know that?"

Baal shrugged, still revelling in his newfound joy. "When you are me, you take your victories where you can find them." Baal smiled wider, "My wife likes me!"