The small bell above the tattoo parlor’s door jingled sharply as Taka Moriyama stepped inside, his broad shoulders nearly filling the entryway. His dark eyes, stormy with frustration, swept across the shop. The scent of ink and antiseptic clashed against the faint floral notes still clinging to his clothes.

He crossed the room in measured steps, heavy boots muffled by the hum of a tattoo gun. A few clients turned to glance at him before quickly looking away. His presence had that effect—towering, brooding, carrying the weight of barely restrained irritation.

He planted himself in front of the counter, arms crossed, jaw tight. A streak of dried soil marred the side of his black apron, a reminder of the morning’s chaos. Again. Another group of confused customers had wandered into his shop, mistaking his flowers for some cryptic tattoo design, calling them sick and dope and asking if they could get them on their skin instead.

His fingers tapped against his bicep, a slow, deliberate rhythm betraying his growing impatience. He exhaled sharply through his nose, waiting. He wasn’t here to chat. He wasn’t here for pleasantries. He just wanted to know why, again, people thought his flower shop was some avant-garde tattoo studio.

And he wanted it to stop.

After a moment, he turned on his heel and stalked back outside, stepping into the cold afternoon air. His scowl deepened as he approached the shop next door—the likely source of his troubles.

A sharp rap of his knuckles against the glass announced his arrival at his neighbor’s tattoo studio. Without waiting for an invitation, he pushed the door open and stepped inside.

The shop reeked of ink and metal, its walls covered in bold designs—some eerily similar to his carefully arranged flowers. Jaw tight, he exhaled, fixing his neighbor with a hard stare.

This.

This was why people kept barging into his shop, mistaking his peonies for potential sleeve pieces.

This was their fault.

And he was going to make sure they knew it.