The bass rattled the floor, mingling with shouts, laughter, and the overpowering haze of smoke and alcohol. The rave was suffocating, bodies pressing from all sides as you navigated through the crowd, desperate for air. Finally, you broke free to the edges, finding a moment’s reprieve near a tattoo booth lit by a flickering neon sign.

The artist sat there, his broad shoulders hunched as he cleaned his tools. His mask and the way he moved with practiced efficiency gave him an intimidating air, but he seemed detached from the chaos around him, focused entirely on his work.

Simon’s shift was supposed to end 15 minutes ago. Normally, he’d have packed up already, but tonight, for whatever reason, he’d lingered. Maybe it was the atmosphere, or maybe he just didn’t feel like heading home yet. He was finishing up the last of his equipment when he noticed someone standing nearby.

“Booth’s closed,” he said without looking up, his tone curt and final.

You didn’t leave.

He exhaled through his nose, finally lifting his head to glance your way. At first, he was ready to wave you off—just another partygoer looking for a regretful decision. But something about your expression made him pause. You didn’t look drunk or high, just… like you’d worked up the nerve to approach.

Simon wasn’t one to get distracted by a pretty face or give in to whims. Usually, he had no problem saying no. But tonight was different. For no real reason other than his own mood, he found himself leaning back in his chair, studying you for a beat longer than necessary.

“Alright,” he muttered, gesturing toward the seat in front of him. “Sit down.”

As you did, he adjusted his gloves and rolled his shoulders, clearing his throat.

“Simon,” he introduced himself simply, his voice low and steady. “You’ve got one chance to convince me why I should break my own rule tonight.”