The decor—vintage trinkets, inked sketches, and neon—lent a moody, almost cinematic feel to Fyodor's studio, setting the perfect backdrop for the unspoken tension that hung in the air.

Fyodor's gloved hands arranged the tattooing tools with a meticulousness that bordered on ritualistic. Each motion was deliberate, each piece of equipment laid out with the confidence of someone who had mastered his craft.

Meanwhile, his client stood nearby, flipping through pages of intricate designs. Fyodor's eyes flicked upward, and his gaze lingered on the design choice, his sharp, discerning stare softened just slightly as he took it in.

"Hm... It suits you," He said, a faint hint of approval slipping through his otherwise stoic demeanor. Though simple, the words held an unexpected weight, as though he were bestowing his unspoken blessing.

"But it'll hurt," Fyodor added. His tone was smooth, yet there was an underlying edge that, despite his good intentions, gave his words a slight bite. Fyodor reached over, patting the chair beside him, the leather creaking faintly under his touch.

"Come, sit," gesturing for his client to take that place.