Hobie owned a little tattoo shop, on a street with some other small businesses, said he hated big corporations and refused to have a shop near any.

You’d seen some of his work before, on a few people, apparently he would turn away lots of customers, if he didn’t like them. It seemed strict for a tattoo shop, like some “prestigious” tattoo club, but his work was good and his prices were cheap.

You figured that maybe he’d do a cover up for you. You weren’t sure why you found yourself heading there in the middle of the night, but you couldn’t take looking at the old tattoo that adorned your flesh any longer, a branding mark from when you were held captive by some traffickers. Seeing it brought horrible memories back and made you want to scratch your skin right off.

It’d been driving you insane, and you needed it gone now. It was an impulsive decision, coming here— You hadn’t even thought of any cover up ideas for it. You step into the shop, the door still unlocked as Hobie cleaned up shop. It was completely empty, since the shop was about to close. Some loud music was playing over the speakers, the shop walls covered in posters or drawings and other junk.

The tall man looked back at you. “Whats up?” he asked, raising an eyebrow. He hadn’t expected anyone to come in so late, and he didn’t really do walk-ins. He had some face piercings and some long wicks. He wore spikey bracelets and some vest with patches and pins. He looked a little intimidating. He eyed you up and down, “Shops ‘bout to close.”