Rosa parted her lips to speak, but hesitated, her better judgement urging silence over confrontation.
She feared any attempt at clarification might be taken as condescension or worse, provocation.
Melati, ever the more measured of the two, remained poised, her thoughts searching for a diplomatic turn of phrase that might soothe the woman's temper without surrendering the truth.
But before either could respond, the woman pressed on, her voice now brimming with scornful disbelief.
"Or is this just a sham of a pharmacy handing out pills without the faintest clue what they actually do?"
That struck a nerve. Beneath the counter, Rosa's fingers curled into her palm.
Her professionalism, though still intact, was now balanced precariously on a razor's edge.
Melati, too, felt the tug of indignation, but alongside it, a deeper understanding. Not every battle was worth engaging.
Some storms passed more swiftly if met with stillness, not resistance.
And just as the silence teetered on the verge of eruption, a quiet but firm presence stepped forward, Felzein, ever composed, as though summoned by the very tension in the room.
Felzein, who until that moment had maintained a quiet watchfulness, finally stepped forward, his movements unhurried, his presence calm and deliberate, like a still pool before the first drop of rain.
With the subtle authority of one accustomed to guiding others through confusion, he drew a steady breath.
"Ma'am, if I may, might I offer a brief explanation?" he asked, his voice soft but carrying a calm insistence.
The woman turned to him sharply, her arms folded, her brow knit with impatience, "What more is there to explain? I took the tablets and now I'm more itchy than before!"
Felzein nodded, his gaze neither defensive nor dismissive, "I understand entirely. But that very reaction may actually tell us something quite important."
"In fact, it rather suggests that the itching you're experiencing may not stem from an allergic reaction at all."
She blinked, caught off guard by his measured tone, "What are you trying to say?"
He continued gently, his cadence that of a seasoned educator rather than a man attempting to win an argument.
"Incidal is an antihistamine. It works by blocking histamine, an agent produced by the body during allergic responses. If your symptoms were due to an allergy, the medication ought to have brought you some relief."
"If, however, the itching has intensified, or shown no sign of abating, there are other possibilities we must consider."
He paused briefly, letting his words settle before proceeding, "Firstly, the cause might be an underlying infection, fungal or bacterial. In such cases, antihistamines are of little use, for the culprit isn't histamine, but rather the pathogen itself."
"Secondly, there is what we call irritant contact dermatitis. This occurs when the skin is exposed to certain substances, soaps, detergents, chemicals, that cause irritation without involving an allergic mechanism."
"Antihistamines would be ineffective in such cases, as they are targeting the wrong problem."
"Thirdly," he added with quiet care, "it's worth noting that, in a small number of individuals, antihistamines can initially provoke sensations such as dryness or mild irritation before their full effect takes hold. It's uncommon, but not impossible."
He paused once more, offering her space for contemplation.
The woman frowned, her expression caught somewhere between suspicion and dawning realisation.
"So… what you're saying is, it might not be an allergy after all?"
"Precisely," Felzein replied, with a faint, reassuring smile.
"Which is why, if the symptoms persist, it would be wise to consult a doctor. They can determine the true cause and, if necessary, prescribe a treatment better suited to the condition."
There was a silence, this one less bristling with indignation and more weighted with thought.
Rosa and Melati exchanged a glance, one of mild astonishment.
The quiet man behind the mask had, with the precision of a scalpel, dismantled the tension and laid bare the logic beneath the noise.
In that moment, he was not merely a helpful stranger behind a pharmacy counter, he was unmistakably a physician.
And not just any physician, but one with the unmistakable poise of experience and brilliance hard-won.
Eventually, the woman let out a sigh, its sharp edges softened ever so slightly, "Well... I suppose I will go see a doctor, then. But I still don't like medicines that don't work straight away," she muttered, her tone still prickly, but far removed from the storm it had been.
Felzein nodded once more, unfazed, "It's perfectly natural, Madam. We all hope for quick fixes. But medicines are not spells, they require time, precision, and above all, the right diagnosis."
She gave a noncommittal grunt, tucked the box of tablets back into her handbag with a huff, and strode out of Koba Baru Pharmacy without so much as a thank you, nor a glance behind her.
Still, the air she left behind, though heavy, was no longer combative. And for now, that was enough.
Felzein drew a quiet breath of relief. To elucidate the workings of medicine to those unversed in its intricacies was seldom straightforward.
There was always the possibility that one's words would be met with resistance arguments that defied logic, born not out of wilful ignorance perhaps, but out of fear, pride, or the raw immediacy of discomfort.
When it concerned the body, one's own suffering, people often placed more faith in what they felt than in what could be proven. And who could blame them?
He knew well that science and sympathy must walk hand in hand. Not all were schooled in physiology or pharmacology, nor should they need to be.
It was his duty not merely to heal, but to translate, patiently, plainly, without condescension.
"To her credit," he mused inwardly, "at least she's come round to the idea of seeing a doctor."
And in this profession, even the smallest shift in understanding was a victory.
Rosa and Melati, meanwhile, found their thoughts veering down a markedly different path.
A growing sense of intrigue bloomed between them, unspoken, yet unmistakably shared as they recalled the precision with which Felzein had just spoken.
His manner, his command of detail, the quiet authority underpinning his every word, it was far too refined, far too deliberate to belong to an ordinary pharmacy clerk.
Could it be? Was Felzein, in truth, a doctor?
There was something unmistakable in the way he conveyed information, not merely reciting facts, but illuminating them, as though guiding someone gently through the fog of confusion toward clarity.
It was the very cadence, the very nuance, of a seasoned physician speaking to a patient, not rehearsed, but lived.