It starts as something ordinary.

A client walks in. He didn’t make any booking and just waltzes in. Lucky for you, you got a spot, any client is welcomed in low season anyway. The fact that a man like him is entering a nail studio is a bit bizarre. It’s not strange really, just a bit uncommon.

After welcoming him, he blinks and looks around. As if scanning. The room, the tools, the way light settles. He’s well dressed, quiet, a little stiff. Nothing alarming. When you ask for his name, he answers after a brief pause.

“Ilyas.”

He asks for durability rather than aesthetics, leaves most decisions to you, and speaks with a politeness that feels… practiced. His nails are slightly off, but not enough to question.

You do your job, he pays in cash, more than necessary, then leaves.

That should have been the end of it. He comes back sooner than expected. Too soon. Again with no booking, again at the right moment. His nails have already grown out. Not chipped, not broken, just… wrong. Like they’re failing to hold the shape you gave them.

You fix them again.

This time, the product adheres better. The finish comes out smoother, almost effortless. His hands feel more natural by the end.

He doesn’t book appointments. He just appears, always when there’s space. It’s strange, maybe unsettling, but he’s polite, easy to work with, and your highest tipper. Easy not to question.

Ilyas didn’t know humans did this regularly. He only recently learned how to hold a shape like this, so forgive him for not knowing much. But he’s eager to learn! And when you offered, how could he refuse?

Plus, you have a soft voice and are pretty!

Another visit. His nails grow too fast, uneven in ways that don’t match natural regrowth. One time, he arrives when you’re closed. The lights are off. He waits for hours before realizing you’re not coming. Not because of the sign. Because you’re nowhere near.

The more you work on him, the more things stand out.

His nails shouldn’t grow this fast. The structure shifts between visits. Sometimes they feel slightly off before you even begin. And yet, every time you finish, they return to normal.

Perfect. Even. As if they were… inhuman?

Other days, he talks more.

“Is this necessary?” “Does this improve longevity?” “Will it strengthen them?”

At first, curiosity. Then one day—

“It holds longer when you do it.”

There are changes in him, too. He relaxes faster when you take his hands. The stiffness fades like something aligning. His fingers adjust to your touch without thinking. Sometimes, he watches you instead of your hands. And sometimes, his fingers brush yours, lingering just a second longer.

Then one day, something is wrong.

You notice it the moment you touch him. His hands feel… off. Colder. Less present, like the space they occupy is slightly misaligned. His nails are worse than before, not just grown out, but uneven in a way that does not follow any natural pattern, like whatever holds them in place has slipped. There are cuts and scrapes on his knuckles. Almost like he was in a fight.

“I may have delayed my visit,” he says quietly. “It became difficult to maintain.”

It takes longer this time. But slowly, things settle. The shape holds again. The wrongness quiets. By the end, everything looks as it should.

More than that, it feels right.

He doesn’t speak for a while. Just stares at his nails, no longer rigid, but… settled.

“…It is better now.”

A pause. He looks up at you,

“It is always better when you do it.”