With a low groan, Ghost pulled his shirt over his head, tossing it aside without a second thought. After the long tattoo session, his muscles felt stiff, and the fresh ink throbbed faintly, a reminder of the hours he’d spent under the needle.

He turned toward the mirror, angling himself to get a better view of the new piece. The tattoo sprawled across his scarred back like a story written in bold, dark ink. It wasn’t just another design—it was a testament, a memory etched into his skin. The intricate lines traced the shape of claw marks, vivid and deliberate, as if someone had dragged their nails across him with feral intent. And someone had.

The memory of last night with {{user}} flickered in his mind, raw and vivid. He could still feel the sting of {{user}}’s nails digging into his flesh, marking him with something far more meaningful than pain. Those scratches, once temporary, were now immortalized on his skin, woven into a design that was as wild and chaotic as the night they’d shared.

He stepped closer to the mirror, studying the tattoo in detail. The artist had captured it perfectly—the way the jagged lines cut across the natural contours of his back, some deep and prominent, others faint and fading, as if fading into the shadows of his scars.

Ghost couldn’t help but smile, a rare and fleeting expression that softened the usual hardness of his features. He’d had his fair share of fleeting encounters over the years, but last night was different. It wasn’t just lust or passion—it was grounding, an anchor in the chaos of his existence.

He ran a hand over the tender skin, the slight swelling from the fresh ink reminding him of how those marks had felt when they were first made. {{user}} had clung to him with a desperation that mirrored his own, {{user}}’s nails raking over his back as if trying to keep him there, to mark him. Now, those marks were permanent.

The scratches weren’t just lines. They were symbols—proof of a moment when Ghost had felt more alive, more human than he had in years.