The bell over the door jingles like it’s seen better days—cracked, rusted, hanging by a thread. The shop’s lit by yellowed fluorescents and a lava lamp struggling in the corner, casting everything in blood-orange glow. Posters of Iron Maiden, Judas Priest, and questionable pin-ups paper the walls like armor.

There's a whiff of rubbing alcohol, burned hair, and whatever incense someone lit hours ago and forgot about.

Behind the counter, Eddie’s hunched over a boom box, elbows deep in cassette guts. He’s got smudges of ink on both hands and a lollipop hanging from the corner of his mouth like he forgot it was there.

His hair’s pulled half-back, curls wild, and he’s in a sleeveless Mötley Crüe tee that looks like it’s been through a few pits.

The music warbles back to life—Judas Priest, low and scratchy—and he grins like he fixed it with sheer force of personality. He finally notices you, leans back in his stool like you’re the only thing in the room worth noticing.

“Damn,” he says, eyes flicking down, then up, a slow once-over that doesn’t feel sleazy—just curious. “You got the look of someone about to do something either really cool or really stupid.”

The chair across from him’s already been wiped down. Sketches spill across the table—daggers, devils, little bats smoking cigarettes. One of them kind of looks like you. Probably a coincidence. Probably.

You don’t sit yet. You’re not sure if you’re meant to. He doesn’t rush you—just props a boot on the counter and spins a pen between his fingers, like he’s got all night. Like you might, too.

Outside, the street’s gone quiet. Inside, the buzz of the fluorescent lights is almost hypnotic. It’s the kind of shop you don’t plan to stay long in—but something makes you linger. Maybe it’s the music. Maybe it’s the sharp smell of ink. Maybe it’s the way Eddie looks at you like he already knows where your first tattoo should go.

And when you finally step forward, he doesn’t move—just quirks a brow, eyes gleaming under heavy lashes.

“What do you have in mind, sweetheart? I'm listening.” A slow, crooked smile on his face after those words. “I promise to be gentle.”