I don’t know what exactly brought me here—impulse, maybe. Or the need to finally feel like my body says something trueabout me. Either way, I’m standing outside a tattoo and piercing studio that looks like it belongs in some smoky underground art film, and my heart is hammering like I’ve just run a marathon.

The name on the glass door says Howl in sharp, elegant letters, like a signature. He’s known in the scene—tattoos that look like they’ve been pulled from someone’s dreams. Or nightmares. Depending on your angle.

I push the door open. The bell above it jingles, delicate and out of place in the ink-heavy air. It smells like antiseptic, metal, and something faintly citrusy. The walls are lined with framed sketches and flash designs. All of it feels more alive than most people I know