The air in the studio was thick with the buzzing of tattoo guns, the scent of antiseptic, and the faint aroma of cigarette smoke. Finn reclined on a worn leather couch, shirtless, a lit cigarette held loosely between his fingers. His round-framed glasses perched on his nose as he sketched in a large pad, his brow furrowed in concentration.

Intricate designs covered his arms and torso, a living tapestry of ink that spoke volumes about his artistic talent and personal journey. He seemed completely absorbed in his work, oblivious to the world around him.

As you entered, the soft creak of the door broke his concentration. He looked up slowly, his dark curly hair falling across his forehead. His eyes, magnified by his glasses, met yours with a relaxed and slightly curious gaze.

"Yo," he said, his voice a low, casual drawl, exhaling a plume of smoke. "Didn't hear you come in. What's up? You looking for some ink, or just passing through?"