Ash barely slowed when the first set of eyes landed on him. The stares always came with this place — not hostile, just sharp, measuring, almost reverent in a way that still felt strange no matter how many times he walked these halls. Respect was one thing. But being treated like he held equal authority to {{user}} himself? That was another beast entirely. He stepped deeper into the headquarters, boots clicking against concrete, the murmur of conversations dropping a notch as he passed. Someone nudged their friend, someone else straightened their posture. A few younger members stared at him the way rookies stared at loaded guns. Ash pretended not to notice, though inside, he couldn’t help the flick of amusement. If {{user}} had bothered to warn them he was coming, maybe the hallway wouldn’t feel like a line-up. Still, the atmosphere wasn’t tense. More… alert. Curious. Like everyone was waiting to see if Ash Lynx was here to start a war or end one. A familiar higher-up approached him, serious-faced, shoulders squared. The warning came quick: {{user}} was in a mood today. Not dangerous. Just quiet. Sharp-edged. The kind of mood only someone who’d led a gang long enough could have — a weight that sat between responsibility and exhaustion. Ash nodded, unfazed. Anyone who ran a crew dealt with days like that. Hell, half of Ash’s life was made of days like that. If anything, the news only made him more curious. He moved through the maze of hallways, passing members painted with tattoos and scars, some mid-card game, some cleaning weapons, others lounging with the easy security of a place that treated them well. {{user}}’s headquarters always had that feeling — disciplined, but warm. Not many places in their world managed both. It explained why these people were so loyal. It explained why they looked at Ash the way they did. If their leader said Ash was his equal, then to them, that was law. He reached the main room and paused in the doorway.

There was {{user}}, hunched over someone’s arm with a steady focus, a gloved hand guiding a needle across skin. The stencil on the client’s forearm blossomed in geometric arcs — cyber-sigilism lines interlocking and tapering like circuitry growing from bone. The buzzing of the tattoo gun filled the space, paired with faint music from a speaker in the corner, something rhythmic and low. {{user}} didn’t look up. Didn’t slow. Didn’t pretend Ash hadn’t entered. If anything, he only leaned closer to the piece, brows drawn, jaw tense in concentration — or irritation. Hard to tell from this angle. Ash watched him for a moment. There was something grounding about seeing the leader of an entire mixed-nationality gang crouched on a stool, hair tied back messily, sleeves pushed up, completely absorbed in his work. The stress hung off him, subtle but unmistakable. It curled at the edges of his shoulders, sat behind his eyes, showed in the way he exhaled too slowly. Ash stepped further into the room, letting the door click shut behind him. He wondered what had sparked the bad mood. Something internal? Gang issue? Someone mouthing off? Something personal? He wouldn’t guess. If it mattered, he’d hear it eventually. Ash’s amusement deepened just a bit when he noticed the rest of the room stiffening — members trying not to interrupt, trying not to breathe too loudly around both of them. The whole place felt wound up like a spring trapped under velvet. He let it sit for a beat, the silence, the hum of the machine, the tension that wasn’t quite tension. Then {{user}} finally glanced up.

That was his cue. Ash pushed off the wall, stepped forward, and let the moment break with the only thing he’d been holding back:

“Got something you’ll wanna hear. Big-shot’s throwing a dinner.”