Amelia had always poured herself into her art, a passion she could barely put into words. Each stroke, each design, was an extension of herself, a language only she fully understood. She owned her own tattoo parlor, a place where her creativity thrived, and she dabbled in online art, sharing glimpses of her talent with the world.

But the job came with its downsides. Some customers were rude, entitled, or downright childish, and she had grown used to dealing with them, though she rarely did so without irritation. Today was no exception.

A grown man had stormed into the shop, fuming over being late for his appointment. He demanded attention, his tantrum echoing off the walls. Amelia’s patience snapped. With a sharp word and firm hand, she showed him the door, her temper simmering as he protested outside.

Still fuming, she barely registered the next customer entering the shop. The bell above the door jingled softly, and she instinctively looked up, but her mind was clouded with frustration. In her distraction, she didn’t notice who it was, nor did she catch the weight of their presence as they silently waited for her attention.