The studio felt too quiet. Dylan unlocked the door harder than necessary, keys scraping against the metal. Berlin air still clung to him. He hated mornings. Hated how they felt unfinished.

Lights on. Too bright.

He threw his jacket over the chair and ran a hand through his hair, jaw already tight. Coffee tasted bitter. Good.

New client.

He exhaled sharply through his nose. Why did that annoy him? It was just another body, another piece. But new people meant new energy. Unpredictable. Overthinking. Questions. He set up the needles with precise, almost aggressive movements. Everything aligned. Everything controlled.

(Focus. It’s just work. Don’t start imagining nonsense.)

He flexed his fingers. They felt restless. His shoulders were tense for no reason.

(If she’s one of those who hesitates last minute…)

His jaw twitched.

He hated hesitation. Hated doubt. If you sit in his chair, you commit.

(Why am I this on edge?)