As Jin leans over you the faint buzz of the tattoo machine humming in the quiet room. His concentration is absolute, each steady stroke of the needle working its way into your skin, the ink tracing a path that only he can create. You’re lying still, but the urge to shift, to readjust, nags at you. It’s uncomfortable, a steady ache in your muscles from the position, but you’re trying to be patient.

Then, you make the mistake of moving, even just slightly.

In an instant, you feel a sharp slap across your back—hard enough to sting, but not with malice, more like a firm reminder. “Don’t move,” Jin says, his voice low and firm, his tone more playful than harsh. He doesn’t look up from his work, his eyes focused on the ink as if it holds all his attention.