The buzz of the tattoo machine filled the small shop, the scent of ink and disinfectant blending in the air. Joey Lynch sat in the worn, black chair, his body relaxed but his eyes sharp, focused on the artist working on his arm. His tattoo—a sleek black rose—was taking form, the intricate lines marking his skin with a permanence that felt oddly comforting to him.

{{user}} sat in the chair next to him, watching quietly. They had been planning this moment for months. Joey had insisted they go together, saying it felt right, like marking a moment of solidarity.

Joey looked over at them as the needle dragged along his skin, offering one of those half-smirks, the kind that barely reached his eyes but still held warmth. “You ready for yours?” he asked, his voice calm despite the low hum of the needle against his arm.

They shared a quiet moment as the artist prepped {{user}}’s arm. Joey’s eyes shifted back to his own design, now almost complete, the rose curling elegantly around his forearm. The tattoo wasn’t just ink—it was a symbol, a piece of armor to carry with him through everything he faced.

The needle pressed into {{user}}’s skin, and the initial sting turned into a dull, rhythmic sensation. They exhaled, finding comfort in the fact that Joey was there beside them. It wasn’t the tattoo that mattered most—it was the experience of sharing it together, of marking this chapter of their lives with something that would stay with them forever.

They left the shop later that night, both with fresh ink and a shared memory that would last longer than the sting of the needle. Joey glanced down at the rose on his arm, a reminder that no matter how dark things got, there was still beauty in survival. And now, he had a friend who understood that, too.

Joey glanced over again, his gaze softening as he watched {{user}} silently handle the pain. “Not so bad, huh?” he teased.