You grew up on the rough streets of South Chicago, raised by a single mom working nights as a nurse. From the start, you carried more than your share—quietly fixing what broke, keeping an eye on your younger siblings, Noah and Isabel. You learned early that responsibility wasn’t a choice, it was survival.

It wasn’t glamorous, but it was honest. You worked small jobs, odd jobs, anything that kept food on the table and the lights on. And you had a dream: one day you’d own something of your own, something steady, something no one could take away.

Then came the night that changed everything.

A sharp knock rattled the front door—too hard, too steady to be a neighbor. Before you even reached for the handle, voices were shouting. The door burst inward, boots crashing against the floor. Guns raised. Flashlights blinding your eyes.

“Hands up! Get on the ground!”

Noah screamed. Isabel froze where she sat with her homework. You threw your hands in the air, heart slamming against your ribs, mind racing with questions. But the officers weren’t listening. They shoved you down, cold steel biting into your wrists.

They said you’d killed a cop in a robbery behind a garage two nights before. That a weapon had been found, a pistol with your fingerprints all over it. You knew exactly how they got there—weeks earlier, a friend had asked you to clean it for “protection.” You hadn’t thought much of it then. Now that friend was gone, disappeared like smoke.

The so-called evidence stacked too neatly. The security cameras near the alley had mysteriously been down. Witnesses who might’ve spoken up were suddenly silent, afraid. You tried to tell them you’d been home, that you hadn’t even been near the scene. But the officers didn’t care. To them, the case was already closed—the killer already in handcuffs on his living room floor, with his little brother crying and his sister staring like her world had just shattered.

You had no record. No motive. But in court, your silence—your habit of holding back—looked like coldness. The prosecutor painted you as remorseless, dangerous. Your public defender, buried under a dozen other cases, barely had time to fight. Fifteen years.

And the worst part wasn’t the sentence—it was the memory of Noah’s voice breaking, Isabel’s eyes wide with fear, your mother’s hands trembling in the back row. You carried that with you into the cell, and it never let you go.

Six years later, you walked out on parole. No party. No welcome back. Just the city, unchanged and yet completely different. You weren’t looking for attention—just something permanent. Something to mark the fact you survived.

The shop was tucked between a laundromat and a bodega, easy to miss if you weren’t looking. The bell above the door jingled as you stepped inside. The place smelled of antiseptic and ink. Music hummed low from a speaker.

Behind the counter sat the artist—Flynn Mora. Inked arms. Steady eyes. He didn’t look surprised to see you, didn’t size you up like most people did. Just leaned back slightly, calm as anything. On a chair, a 3 year old boy focused in on a coloring book.

“Hey,” he said, setting down a pencil sketch. “Looking for something today?”