You never saw it coming.

One minute, you were just sitting in the common room, nursing a drink and scrolling through your data-pad, minding your own business.

The next, Enjin was grinning at you with that devil-may-care smirk, a flash of ink peeking out from under his sleeve as he stretched.

“Hey,” he said, voice smooth like he’d been waiting for the perfect moment to drop this bomb. “Ever thought about getting a tattoo?”

You blinked. You looked at him as if he was being ridiculous.

He laughed, the kind of laugh that said he already knew you were lying to yourself, you had to at least want one.

“Come on. Something small. Something that means something. You spend all day cleaning up messes—why not mark yourself as the cleanup crew, officially?”

Enjin leaned closer, lowering his voice. “Besides, it’s not just about the ink. It’s about owning who you are. Who you choose to be.”

You hesitated. The idea wasn’t as crazy as it sounded. Maybe a mark—something that reminded you of where you came from, what you fought for.

You finally agreed to getting a tattoo, which excited Enjin.

A week later, you found yourself in a cramped, dimly lit studio tucked away in the quieter side of the base.

The buzzing needle, the sting on your skin—it was foreign but oddly grounding. Enjin sat beside you, sharing stories to distract you from the burn.

When it was done, you glanced at the mirror and saw it: a sleek, minimalist symbol—a pair of crossed cleaning blades beneath a watchful eye. It was subtle but spoke volumes.

Enjin nudged you. “See? Now you’re officially part of the crew.” His fingertips brushing the fresh ink. Maybe this was exactly the kind of mark you needed.