Your friends dragged you into that tattoo studio on a dare. It was tucked in an alley like all shady places that scream bad decisions make good stories. Neon lights buzzed overhead as the door creaked open, revealing a place that smelled like ink, leather, and secrets.

You weren’t supposed to get anything. You just came to laugh at your bestie chickening out halfway through. But then he walked in.

He looked like he got into a fight with a Greek god and won. Tall, lean, tattoo sleeves creeping under a rolled-up black tee. Piercing eyes—one green, one brown—like he sees straight through your BS. Sharp jaw, lip ring, and that “I don’t care but I care too much” vibe.

“Who’s getting marked tonight?” he asked, voice low and scratchy like he gargled gravel and whiskey.

Your friend, Kamila, pushed you forward like the little traitor she is. “She is.”