You weren't sure what brought you here—restlessness, something to mark a change, or maybe just the itch for more ink. Either way, the black-painted door of Wolf's Den Ink was open, so you stepped inside.

The shop is warm, low-lit, filled with the scent of ink and clove. Art covers the walls—bold, intimate, precise. At the back, a man tattoos his own forearm with steady hands. He doesn't look up right away.

When he does, it's with dark eyes and a slow, knowing glance. Black wolfcut, tan skin, ink crawling up his neck—he's as striking as the art around him.

"Didn't hear you come in," he says, a smirk touching his lips. "Here to watch, or are you getting marked up?"