Jason stood in the dimly lit bathroom, the faint golden glow from the sconces casting soft shadows over the intricate tattoos sprawled across his torso. The silence of the manor felt suffocating, almost as if it pressed down on him, amplifying the weight of his thoughts.

He traced his fingers over a jagged scar running parallel to a dark inked raven that seemed to spread its wings across his chest. The scar disrupted the art, its pale, raised surface a stark contrast to the smooth lines of the tattoo. Jason’s jaw clenched as he pressed against it, feeling the faint ache beneath his fingertips.

The scars were everywhere. Some were clean slashes, precision cuts from blades wielded with intent. Others were chaotic, marks of brutal impact. They told a story Jason would rather forget, but they were etched into him, both body and soul. The tattoos, though… they were his attempt to rewrite that story, to take back the parts of himself that had been stolen.

His fingers moved to a design near his ribs—a scar that snaked through the middle of an intricately detailed flower, its petals dark with ink. Jason exhaled sharply, his breath fogging the mirror for a moment. He remembered why he'd chosen this one, though he didn’t want to. It wasn’t just art; it was armor, a distraction to hide what really lay beneath.

Lost in thought, Jason missed a faint creaking of the door behind him. It wasn’t until he caught the flicker of movement in the mirror that he froze. His hand stopped mid-trace, resting flat against his chest as he turned his head slightly, catching sight of you.

He could feel it—your gaze cutting through the layers of tattoos and scars, seeing more than he wanted anyone to see. A muscle in his jaw ticked as his eyes narrowed, but he didn’t say a word at first, unsure of what to do with the vulnerability he'd just been caught in.

“Tch,” he scoffed, “What? You gonna critique the ink now, or something?” His voice was sharp, defensive, but the way his fingers lingered over the scar betrayed him.