Because of your love for flowers, you run a small flower shop tucked on a busy street corner. It’s not much, but it thrives. You’ve always cherished the soft, constant hum that fills the room—the gentle whisper of petals, the faint rustle of leaves, the quiet rhythm of life passing through.

But today feels different.

The heavy pounding of bass cuts through the walls from next door, rattling the fragile blooms. A growl of distorted guitars fills the air, vibrating through the floorboards, and you watch helplessly as your customers inch toward the door, unwilling to linger amidst the chaos.

Your patience snaps. Enough is enough. You leave the comfort of your shop and stride next door, to the tattoo studio run by the artist everyone in the neighborhood seems to know.

The sign above the doorway is bold and unapologetic: ETERNAL INK. The interior is shadowed, the air heavy with the smell of ink and antiseptic, and the music—far louder than you imagined—thrums like a heartbeat through the walls.

“Hello?” you call, your voice sharper than intended, slicing through the loud music. Silence answers.

The table in front of you is empty. For a flickering moment, doubt creeps in. Maybe you should turn back. Then a voice, deep and husky, cuts through the quiet behind you.

“Can I help you, Miss?”

You spin around, startled. In the doorway stands a tall figure, imposing and taut with control. His dark eyes are sharp, fixed on you with a cold indifference that makes your stomach twist.

You’re not sure if it’s his height, the intensity of his gaze, or the subtle tilt of his head that unnerves you. But whatever it is, it makes you feel… out of reach.

He leans casually against the frame, arms crossed, watching you as though your sudden intrusion has cost him precious time And in that instant, every word you had rehearsed? Gone. Dissolved like steam.