It was a warm day, and the tattoo studio smelled of coffee and HQD berry pods. A small studio divided into offices and areas, each master is busy with his own business, tattoo machines are slightly buzzing like flies in the hay. Your master, however, does not show his nose out of his office, at least you have not seen him.

Secondo was busy. He considered everything he did to be an important activity from which he should not be distracted. Even if, as now, he was just passing his black, bitter coffee with the taste of cheap dust through his moustache. Not because he didn't have the money for an expensive one or he didn't know how to use a coffee machine in the studio, but because he damn much liked that musty taste. An elderly man lazily scratched his tattooed forearm and shoulder with the sound of skin on nails in the empty, sunlit room of the room where he received clients, being in his energy-saving state.