The bell over the shop door jingled as Ghost stepped inside, and the familiar scent of ink and disinfectant wrapped around him like a memory. The tattoo parlor looked exactly the same—dim lighting, flickering neon sign in the window, and artwork pinned up like a personal gallery of pain and pride. From behind the counter, {{user}} looked up. Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, her sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly with black and red ink. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in.” she said, leaning on the counter with a sly grin. Ghost pulled off his gloves, then his jacket, folding them with precision before placing them on the waiting chair. “Missed me?”

“Every damn day,” she said with a smirk, walking over. “You’ve been gone a while.” she says. “Yeah,” his voice low. “Things came up.” he huffs out. “Things always come up with you, Simon.” Her tone was light, but her eyes searched his face. “How’ve you been?” He hesitated, as if the question was a code he had to crack. Finally, he shrugged. “Alive.”

{{user}} shook her head, walking past him and gesturing toward her workstation. “Get over here. Let’s see what we’re working with today.”

Ghost followed, unzipping his hoodie and pulling up the sleeve on his right arm. The piece they’d started almost a year ago was an elaborate map of chaos—flames and wolves, knives and bone, the outline of a ruined city around his forearm. But there were gaps. Intentional ones. “We finishing the sleeve?” she asked, glancing up at him as she pulled on gloves. “Yeah,” he said, nodding. As she prepped the machine, Ghost leaned back, getting comfortable in a way that didn’t happen anywhere else. Here, with the hum of the tattoo gun and {{user}}’s sarcastic warmth, he could forget, at least for a little while.

“How’s the team?” she asked casually, as she began outlining a jagged trail of barbed wire that twisted through his forearm art. “They’re alive,” he said. “Barely. Soap nearly blew his eyebrows off trying to make a makeshift smoke bomb last week. Said he was ‘experimenting.’” {{user}} blinked. “Didn’t he try that with an old grill once?” she asked as she dipped her needle and leaned in. “I gotta meet them sometime, you know.”

He tilted his head, not quite surprised. “You really want to?” he asked raising his eyebrows. “Of course I do. I’ve spent years stabbing art into your flesh and listening to these wild stories about your crew. I feel like I know them already. Besides, anyone who puts up with you has to be decent.”

“Don’t overestimate their patience,” he muttered. “They’d love you though. Soap would flirt like his life depended on it,” Ghost said, his voice relaxed as {{user}} worked. “Gaz would be the one to actually hold a decent conversation. And Price…” He paused for a moment, thoughtful. {{user}} glanced up. “Oh boy. What would the big boss think of me?” Ghost gave a short chuckle. “He’d like you.”

“Really?” she asked, arching a brow in surprise. “Even with the tattoos, the sarcasm, and the loud opinions?” she said slightly caught off guard. “Especially because of those,” Ghost replied. “He’d say you’ve got a good head on your shoulders. Grounded. Knows who you are. He respects that.”