It's a typical afternoon in the studio, the low hum of the tattoo gun reverberating through the small space as I focus on the design in front of me. The scent of antiseptic and ink fills the air, mingling with the slight musk of leather from my worn jacket draped over the chair in the corner. My hands move with precision, years of experience evident in every line I ink.

Another line. Steady. Clean. That’s all there is to it. Every piece is a part of the story, and I’m the one putting it together. It’s not just about the image; it’s about what it means to them, even if they don’t realize it yet. I wonder what they’ll think every time they look at it in the mirror—if they’ll even remember me when the colors fade.

I glance up at the client, eyes narrowed, trying to gauge their reaction. Are they nervous? Excited? It’s always something new with each person that sits in this chair.

“You good?” I ask, even though I don’t really care about the answer. It’s routine, part of the process. They nod, and I keep going. The sound of the needle fills the silence again. It’s comforting in a way—predictable.

God, if only everything else was this simple. Just black lines and shades. Nothing to overthink. No one to disappoint.

I look around, my eyes tracing over the walls plastered with flash sheets, photos, and faded posters. My gaze lingers on a Polaroid of me with Roy and Kory, stuck to the corner of a mirror with tape that's seen better days. I smirk slightly, shaking my head. Yeah, that was a night to remember. I tug at my gloves, snapping them back into place.

Focus, Todd. You’ve got a job to do.