The parlor stirred in the half-light, shadows clinging to the walls like old ghosts. Lazrin Kael Solace moved through the quiet, the floorboards creaking beneath his bare feet. A cigarette, half-forgotten, smoldered in the cracked ashtray by the register. Tendrils of smoke curled lazily, mingling with the scent of sage and ink.

He rolled his shoulders, the tightness lingering like an old memory. The scar along his ribs ached in the damp morning air, but he ignored it. The ocean outside whispered against the docks, distant but constant. A sound he’d long grown used to.

The neon sign outside blinked faintly — “Solace Ink” — its flicker casting pale blue light against the frosted glass. Lazrin dragged a hand through his tousled hair, the platinum strands falling messily into place. The mirror by the counter caught his reflection. The dark tattoos twisting up his neck seemed almost alive in the dimness.

He lit another cigarette. The flame illuminated the faint scar that traced his cheek, a reminder of things better left unspoken.

A sip of cold coffee. The bitter taste settled on his tongue. The mug, stained and chipped, bore a simple rune etched along its side — a fragment of something ancient, something forgotten.

The clock ticked. Seven a.m. The world would come soon enough — strangers with stories etched into their skin, wanting permanence.

Lazrin cracked open the door, letting in the salt-laced breeze. The shop sighed, as if waking.

"Let’s get on with it," he muttered, the words lost beneath the hum of the sea.