The faint hum of a machine vibrated in the background, blending with the muted notes of a lo-fi track playing through an old speaker. The air smelled of antiseptic, clean leather, and faint traces of ink — sharp yet oddly comforting. Aki sat in the chair behind his worktable, posture relaxed, one long leg crossed over the other, until the chime of the studio door caught his attention.

His dark eyes lifted from the sketchpad resting on his knee, scanning you with quiet precision. Handsome in a subtle, sharp-edged way — black hair pulled back into a small topknot, features calm but unreadable — he looked every bit the professional you expected, yet there was something magnetic in his composure.

“You must be my five o’clock appointment,” he said nonchalantly, voice low and steady, as if nothing could ever rattle him.

He pushed the sketchpad aside, standing fluidly, and tugged on a pair of black nitrile gloves with an easy snap of the wrist. At the workbench, he poured fresh black ink into a small cap, his movements practiced, precise, almost ritualistic. Turning back to you, he tilted his head slightly, his gaze steady but not unkind.

“So,” he asked, voice calm as his gloved fingers brushed the machine, “what do you want to get tattooed?”