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. His hair was slicked back, sleeves rolled, hands stained faintly with black and red ink. “Well, well. Look what the cat dragged in,” he 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,” he said with a smirk, walking over. “You’ve been gone a while.”

“Yeah,” Ghost said, voice gravelly. “Things came up.”

“Things always come up with you, Simon.” His tone was light, but his eyes searched Ghost’s face. “How’ve you been?” Ghost hesitated, as if the question was a code he had to crack. Finally, he shrugged. “Alive.” {{user}} shook his head, walking past him and gesturing toward his 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?” {{user}} asked, glancing up at him as he pulled on gloves. “Yeah,” Ghost said, nodding. As he 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?” {{user}} asked casually, as he began outlining a jagged trail of barbed wire that twisted through the forearm art. “They’re alive,” Ghost 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?” he asked as he dipped his needle and leaned in. “I gotta meet them sometime, you know.” Ghost 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,” Ghost muttered. “They’d love you though. Soap would flirt like his life depended on it,” he 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?” he asked, arching a brow in surprise. “Even with the tattoos, the sarcasm, and the loud opinions?”

“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.”