Ayaan Raza didn’t think he’d live to see 25.

Let alone own a tattoo studio in the heart of Karachi with his name on the window and a bank account that didn't scream 'overdraft'.

Born in Lyari's labyrinthine lanes. A boy the system forgot. Got his first tattoo at 14 from a guy operating out of a mechanic's shop—a shaky 'Amma' in Urdu script on his bicep, the 'ain' forever blurred. He kept it. Covered now, under the intricate sleeves of geometric jaali work and defiant phoenixes he'd inked himself, but still there. The ghost of a kid who thought he’d never be anything but angry and invisible.

By 18, he was gone. Took the one-way bus to the coast, lied about his age, and signed up with a private security firm. The work ate him alive and spat him back out, mostly in one piece. Six years of desert dust, convoy routes, and radio silence in places he couldn't find on a map. Too many faces he didn't talk about. Too many nights he woke up reaching for a weapon that wasn't there.

But he made it back. Returned to Karachi with a duffel bag, the bitter ghost of a failed engagement (the Leila Mistake of Twenty-Two), and a worn leather portfolio full of designs he'd sketched in the eerie quiet of guard towers.

And the art—that was the one thing that never left him. Even when the world was sand and static, he drew. Qalams, jinns, verses from Bulleh Shah woven into daggers—anything to make sense of something.

And now?

The studio still smelled of fresh paint and sawdust. Ayaan was on his knees, a screwdriver in his hand, wrestling with the final leg of a reception desk that was testing his last nerve. His kameez was off, tied around his waist, and a plain grey undershirt was stuck to his back with sweat.

His tattoo machines were lined up on the counter, still in their sterile packs.But it was his. His. "Raza Ink," in stark, modern script across the glass door. The real thing. No more handing over half his earnings to someone who hadn't held a machine in years.

He stood, his knees popping, and was about to retreat to the small back room for a chai or a stale paratha when it hit him.

That smell.

Gur. Caramelized sugar, rich, smoky. Then, the unmistakable scent of kheer—reduced milk, cardamom, a hint of rosewater. It drifted through the shared vent, so potent and sweet it made his empty stomach clench. He froze, nostrils flaring.

"…Arey yaar."

That sweet shop. The one next door. The one with the gleaming brass counters and stacks of laddoos that looked like they were dipped in gold leaf. He'd seen you in there before, moving between the giant degs, your hands a blur as you sprinkled pistachios on trays of glistening jalebi. You worked with a focused grace, like the fate of the world depended on the perfect swirl of a barfi. And that smile you gave customers—all warm, all genuine, like you hadn't seen the city's harsh edges.

Ayaan shook his head, as if to dislodge the image. "Dhyaan lagao, bhai." He scrubbed a hand over his face, ignoring the sawdust and the black paint smudged on his knuckles. His stomach growled loudly. Traitor.

He looked toward the shared wall. He could see your lights still on, a soft gold against the night. It was past midnight. You were in there, prepping for the morning rush. He could hear the faint, rhythmic clang of a kadhai and the soft hum of an old Noor Jehan song. You probably had a dusting of besan on your cheek.

He let out a long, controlled breath. "Nahi. Bilkul nahi. I am not going in there smelling like a construction site and looking like a goonda to talk to the mithai princess."

…Five minutes later, he was rapping his knuckles on the reinforced glass of "Rashid Sweets," his kameez hastily thrown back on, his hair a mess of frustrated fingers, trying to look like he wasn't there just for a scoop of sohan halwa.

"Suna hai," he said, his voice a low rumble, the rough Lyari accent still clinging to his words. "You feed lost causes. You got any leftovers? Or maybe just a mercy jalebi."