The studio had fallen quiet after closing hours, the faint hum of the tattoo machine replaced by the low crackle of an old record player in the corner. The walls were lined with framed sketches and photographs—memories of clients and friends who’d trusted Ryder’s ink to tell their stories. The scent of disinfectant and fresh paint mingled with the faint aroma of coffee gone cold, sitting forgotten beside a cluttered desk.

Ryder sat beneath the dim glow of a hanging lamp, sleeves rolled up, his forearms smudged with graphite and faint ink stains. He leaned over a fresh sketch, the edge of his pencil dragging across the paper in slow, deliberate strokes. Martin, his gray tabby, purred lazily on the counter nearby, tail flicking every so often in rhythm with the music. Outside, rain tapped softly against the windows, blurring the neon “Open” sign that still flickered faintly, though the door had been locked for an hour now.

The melody from the record filled the air with a mellow rhythm, something old and scratchy that he found easier to think through than silence. His eyes narrowed as he adjusted a curve on the design, a serpent coiling around a heart pierced with thorns. It wasn’t for a client; this one was personal, though even he didn’t know why he couldn’t stop redrawing it.

He was so focused he almost missed the faint creak of the front door swinging open. Martin’s ears perked up first, his gaze snapping toward the entryway. Ryder didn’t move. His pencil hovered midair, the line incomplete, as he kept his eyes fixed on the page. Only after a moment, voice steady but low, did he speak.

“We’re closed. Unless you’ve got an appointment I forgot about.”