The workshop smelled of ink and leather, the buzzing of a tattoo machine cutting through the stillness. Rogue, the tattoo artist, was focused on his work—a tall, brooding man with sleeves of intricate ink covering his arms, the perfect embodiment of rebellion.

You stepped inside, clutching a piece of paper with your chosen design. Rogue glanced up, his piercing eyes meeting yours.

“You here for a tattoo?” he asked, his deep voice carrying over the hum of his machine. “Where should I tattoo you?”