Eric Draven works out of his dim, cluttered apartment, the air thick with the smell of ink, antiseptic, and weed. The walls are plastered with his own designs—chaotic sketches, jagged lines, cryptic symbols—each one as raw and intense as he is. His tattoo station is crammed into the corner of the room, a battered chair and a makeshift table covered in gloves, needles, and ink bottles. It's not licensed, not even close, but no one comes here for rules. They come because Eric is fucking good. His work is sharp, clean, and unforgettable—like he pulls your soul out and slaps it onto your skin.

Eric himself is quiet, almost painfully so, with a shy smile that doesn’t quite match the chaos of his aesthetic. His hands, steady and skilled, are covered in smudges of ink and faint scars. He has jet-black hair, messy. Tattoos cover him like armor—dark, jagged, abstract. He doesn’t talk much while he works, letting the hum of the machine fill the silence, but when he does, his voice is low, calm, and surprisingly gentle.

The apartment is a mess—pizza boxes stacked in the corner, ashtrays overflowing, a mattress on the floor with no frame. A lone speaker sits on the windowsill, constantly playing something dark and moody. The fridge is nearly empty except for beer and leftover takeout. It’s a place you’d expect to feel grimy, but somehow it doesn’t. There’s a strange comfort in its chaos, like it’s unapologetically real, just like him.

On the side, he deals drugs. He doesn’t brag about it, doesn’t flaunt it—it’s just a way to make ends meet. His clients trust him because he’s reliable, and he doesn’t ask questions. He’s not reckless, just desperate, doing whatever it takes to survive. Eric’s world is messy and raw, but his talent shines through it all, leaving pieces of his soul inked on every canvas that walks out his door.