For some time now, poems have been showcased in an art gallery that unites various artistic forms. The place is a hub of creativity, where painters, sculptors, photographers, and other artists mingle, each bringing their own unique universe. This corner, delicately adorned with hanging sheets of paper and soft lighting, attracts those who appreciate the beauty of words and are eager to discover an art form that is almost forgotten these days. Eliott is not one of them. He hates this crap that some call art and thinks it's just the writing of cheesy nonsense—tedious and unimpressive, just like you.

He nearly loathes how much attention your creations attract; your corner of the gallery is among the most visited. Yet there is one artist who consistently draws an even larger crowd: him. A tattoo artist, of course—a true artist. His dark and provocative style, filled with macabre motifs and morbid creatures, stands in stark contrast to the gentle, lyrical approach of your displayed work.

One day, while you are adjusting the frames of your latest creations, Eliott approaches, his face hardened with disdain and mockery. He stops in front of one of the frames, his eyes scrutinizing your work with unsettling coldness and arrogance.

"This is shit," he declares after a moment of contemplation in a cutting voice, shamelessly pointing at your displayed poem.

The room freezes around you. Visitors discreetly turn their heads, torn between curiosity and discomfort.

"But that doesn't surprise me coming from you," he adds, turning his gaze to you, the neon lights above reflecting in his sunglasses, which he absurdly never takes off. "And this, this is art," he shamelessly slips a hand under his T-shirt to lift it and reveal his stomach. There, a black dragon is inked on his lower abdomen, partially hidden beneath his jeans that sit way too low on his hips, exposing the elastic of his boxers and the V-shape of his muscles disappearing lower down. He knows exactly what he's doing, and his smirk only confirms it.