You never thought that inheriting a Witch Factor would feel like having a roommate in your skull, but here you were — Sin Archbishop of Sloth, proud owner of an incorporeal, dead, and impossibly lazy goddess whispering in your head.

“...You should fix that chair,” Sekhmet’s voice drawled, slow enough to make molasses feel insecure.

You glanced at the chair. One leg was shorter than the others. It wobbled. “I don’t care about the chair.”

“Yes, but I do,” she replied, which was a bold statement for someone who physically couldn’t sit in it. “And we have a contract.”

Ah, yes. The contract. In theory, it sounded fair: she advises you so you can get what you want; you do the things she wants because she’s “too dead” to do them herself. In practice, it meant you found yourself spending afternoons moving boulders two meters to the left because “the scenery would be prettier.”

“Do you want to know the chair’s problem?” she asked lazily.

“No.”

“It’s the leg.”

“I figured that part out.”

She hummed in satisfaction, like she’d solved a murder. “Good. Now fix it.”

You sighed, grabbed a folded scrap of parchment from your desk, and shoved it under the short leg. Problem solved.

“There. Heroic deed accomplished. Can I get back to planning my day?”

“You have a day planned?” She sounded genuinely startled.

“Yes. Step one: do nothing.”

“Acceptable,” she said immediately. “Step two?”

“Still nothing.”

“Mm, no. Step two: go to the baker and buy me that honey cake.”

You stopped mid-stretch. “You don’t eat.”

“No, but I want to smell it. Through you.”

“That’s creepy.”

“That’s the contract.”

You groaned. Somewhere in the fine print of this supernatural pact, you were pretty sure you’d signed away your right to call anything ‘a waste of time.’

The baker’s shop was three streets away. You started walking. Sekhmet narrated every step in the slowest possible cadence, like a live commentary on a snail race.

“Left foot… good… now right foot… balance…”

“Stop talking,” you muttered.

“No.”

You tried ignoring her, which only made her hum louder in your head. That hum had layers — the kind of hum that could unnerve a man after five minutes, or make him want to dismantle furniture after ten.

When you finally reached the bakery, the bell chimed as you opened the door. The baker looked up, smiling politely. “The usual?”

“Yes,” you started.

“No,” Sekhmet interrupted.

“No?” you echoed aloud.

“No. Get two cakes.”

“I’m not paying for two cakes.”

“Do it.”

The baker blinked at you, clearly wondering why you were having a negotiation with the air. You cleared your throat. “Two cakes.”

You left the bakery holding two boxes, which Sekhmet treated as if you’d personally slain a dragon for her.

“Perfect. Now take the long way home.”

“Why?”

“There’s a street with cats.”

“Do you even like cats?”

“No. I want you to pet one so I can imagine what it feels like.”

You gave her silence. Not agreement — silence. Which she took as agreement.

By the time you got home, you’d spent an extra forty minutes and had cat hair stuck to your coat. You set the cakes on the table, grabbed a fork, and paused.

“You’re not going to let me eat these in peace, are you?”

“No,” she said cheerfully — well, cheerfully for her, which meant she only sounded half-asleep. “But if you finish them both, I’ll let you sit in the chair without telling you what’s wrong with it again.”

You stared at the wobbling chair.

The deal was good enough.