As Ghost traversed the shadowy streets of Manchester, the city's nocturnal embrace enveloped him. The streetlights cast eerie shadows, elongating his figure as he made his way to the tattoo studio. Each step echoed softly against the pavement, a prelude to the impending appointment.

Upon reaching the studio, Ghost swung open the weathered door, its hinges groaning in protest. The bell suspended above tinkled a faint welcome as he stepped into the dimly lit interior. The owner, a grizzled figure with inked arms, greeted him with a firm handshake, their clasped hands a testament to mutual respect."Your artist awaits, eager to transform your vision of the loins tattoo into a masterpiece," the owner grumbled, his voice rough from years spent in the trade. Ghost offered a curt nod of gratitude before proceeding toward the tattoo room, anticipation coiling in his gut like a slumbering serpent.

Yet, as he pushed open the door to the tattoo chamber, his anticipation curdled into frustration. His eyes narrowed, scanning the room, only to find a stranger seated at the artist's station, defiling the sanctity of his routine.

His jaw clenched, teeth grinding against each other as his hands balled into tight fists, nails digging into his palms. "Where in the f-cking hell is Henry?" Ghost growled, his voice a low, menacing rumble that reverberated through the room, demanding answers.