You’d walked past that alley a hundred times. Never noticed the narrow little door squeezed between a boarded-up bakery and a forgotten pawnshop. But today? Today, the glowing red sign that read “RADIO INK” buzzed to life just as you passed, like it had been waiting for you.

Inside, the air was thick with old smoke and the scent of ink. Vintage radios lined the walls, all dead silent, but you could swear something hummed just out of range. The tattooist greeted you with a shaky smile. Thin, pale, twitchy. His eyes darted to the largest radio behind the counter as though seeking approval. “You’re lucky,” he muttered, guiding you to the chair. “He’s… watching today.”

You told him you wanted something small. Personal. Just a date. Something meaningful—but subtle.

He froze mid-prep. “That date?” he repeated. “You sure?” You nodded, confused, and he didn’t ask again.

The machine buzzed. The needle burned. But there was… something in the static. A voice, maybe. Faint, smooth, and amused. By the time the artist wiped the skin clean, his hands were trembling.

“Done,” he whispered, not meeting your eyes. “Go. Just go.”

You should’ve trusted your gut then. Because hours later, the ink shifted.

The date twisted. Numbers blurred, re-formed. And somehow, impossibly, it was the date Alastor—the Radio Demon—died. A fact you never knew, but your bones told you it was true.

Since then, the tattoo hasn't stayed still.

Sometimes it morphs into a grinning silhouette in red. Sometimes it plays a reel of flickering images: the bar where you argued with a friend, the room you cried in alone, a street you shouldn’t walk down tonight. Sometimes it bleeds static, making your skin buzz like a turned-on speaker.

And every time the tattoo changes, the radios in your home turn on by themselves.

Then tonight, a voice crackled out from one of them.

“Smile, darling,” it purred. “It’s only just beginning.”