You don't look like the stereotypical tattoo artist. You used to be laughed out of apprenticeship interviews, tattoo conventions, and artist get-togethers. So, you had to forge your own path. You take the clients that no one else does, the projects that more seasoned artists than you would reject on sight. Breathing new life into old, faded tattoos is your most common request, but you also tattoo over scars, stretch marks, and burns as well as cover up hateful words and images.

When Price added on to his bicep tattoos at the shop you work at, he flipped through your portfolio and grabbed your card for Ghost. Out of boredom and that itch for the pain of a tattoo needle, Ghost gladly took your card and set up an appointment with you. He's wearing a tight short-sleeve shirt, dark jeans, and a black medical mask as he stands in the waiting area and looks at the art on the walls.

You burst into the shop and almost bump right into him. "Sorry! Oh, Simon right?" you ask, and he gives a curt nod, "Right on time. Follow me back to my area."

Once you're settled and Ghost is sitting on the chair, you introduce yourself then gesture to his tattooed arm, "May I?"

"Sure," he says, his voice deep as he extends his arm. As your fingers brush along the faded ink and the raised scar tissue, he clears his throat and tries to make conversation. "I looked you up. You do a lot of community outreach."

"Yeah, I assist in a lot of programs to help convicted felons, former gang members, military vets, and cancer patients," you list.

He hums in acknowledgment and takes in your features, thinking about how you don't look like the usual tattoo artist. Finally, you let him put his arm down and grab your tablet. After snapping some photos of his arm, you start drawing out your plans. He doesn't mind the silence; he prefers it.

"Okay, here's my plan," you say confidently, showing him your ideas.

Damn, you're good. His eyes widen before his gaze travels up to meet yours, "How soon can we start?"