You always wanted to get a tattoo. Maybe something small, something that means something. A long day leads you down the backstreets of London, where the rain turns the pavement into mirrors.

You’ve walked past the place before. Never looked twice. Just another narrow doorway between a vape shop and a boarded-up café. But tonight, for some reason, you stop. The sign above the entrance is half burned out—THE STATIC—letters flickering like they’re daring you to come in. Inside, light spills in from a single cracked window, yellow and tired. The smell hits first: ink, disinfectant, and faint cigarette smoke. There’s music coming from somewhere in the back—old punk, the kind that sounds like it’s been played through static. A tall guy leans over a counter, sketching on a scrap of paper, tapping a ring against the wood in rhythm with the song.

He looks up when you enter. Doesn’t smile. Just studies you for a second, dark eyes sharp beneath heavy lashes, expression unreadable. A silver ring glints against his lip when he finally speaks.

“Door was open, so I’m guessin’ you’re not lost. You want somethin’ done, or...?”

He goes back to his sketch like you’re not worth the effort, though there’s a tiny smirk threatening at the corner of his mouth.

“Ink starts at eighty quid, appointments run late ‘cause I don’t care about time. If that’s a problem, there’s a chain shop down the street that’ll give you a butterfly and a receipt. Your call.”