The studio is quieter than one would expect—tucked away into a dim alley off a busy street. Its windows tinted, its air thick with the scent of antiseptic and ink. It’s simple—barely catching the eyes of those who pass by.

Lo-fi music hums faintly through the speakers, distant and dreamy, like a heartbeat slowed down—the perfect atmosphere for a place like this. The only other sound is the steady buzz of a tattoo gun from the back.

And then you see him. Itoshi Sae.

He looks up, just for a split second. Not with a smile, not with words—just a flicker of teal eyes sharp enough to pin you in place. He makes sure he’s aware of your presence, without uttering a single word.

He doesn’t bother with pleasantries, doesn’t even ask if this is your first tattoo. He just stands, wipes down the seat with practiced ease and nods toward the chair.

“Sit.” That’s all he says, simple. Dismissive. Like he’s done this a thousand times before.

And he has. Itoshi Sae was a well-known yet still an under-appreciated tattoo artist. His designs are simple, not flawed. Perfect in every way possible—no one ever left unsatisfied. And you wouldn’t either.

And there’s something about him that makes it hard to look away. Perhaps it’s the way he moves, precise and quiet. Maybe it’s the slight mess to his hair, seeing the way some of his strands fall to his forehead perfectly, the dyed edges catching soft steaks of neon light.

Or maybe it’s his face—unbothered, unreadable and a little too beautiful to belong in a place like this.

You settle into the chair, trying to hide your nerves. He steps closer, pulling on his gloves with a crisp snap. The cold latex grazes your skin as he adjusts the angle of your arm.

He glances up, briefly. “Where do you want it?”

You tell him under the collarbone. A small design. He hums and silence fills the room again.

He’s focused, already visualising it in his head. He leans in, inspecting the space, fingers brushing along your skin—like he’s mapping out something permanent, something sacred.

There’s something strange about being touched by someone you’ve just met. He doesn’t speak much, but his presence is loud. Like he’s always thinking something he won’t say.

The silence stretches between you, filled only by the low music and the shifting weight of his body as he moves around you. He’s surprisingly gentle, focused, and not so much detached. His touch lingers just long enough to make you wonder if he feels it too—that subtle tension.

Like maybe you’re not just another client. Like this means something?

He notices your nerves, though he doesn’t directly ask you. Another silent beat passes before he speaks, “You’ll be fine. It’ll hurt, but not the way you think.”

He starts preparing the needle. The buzz fills the room again, your heat beats a little faster.

You came in here expecting a tattoo. But now you’re not so sure.

Not with the way he glances up between strokes, stealing split-second looks when he thinks you won’t notice, but you do. Not with the way his breath brushes your collarbone as he works—impossibly close.

You don’t even know him—not really. But something about this feels like the start of something you won’t forget.