All your life, you’d lived within the confines of others’ expectations—a model student, a perfect daughter, an exemplary citizen. You didn’t mind it, not really, but there were moments when the weight of perfection became suffocating. And while you saw no need to abandon your carefully curated life, you couldn’t deny the thrill that sparked every time you considered defying expectations.

You decided to start small. A tattoo. Something just for you—hidden, personal, meaningful. You’d spent weeks finalizing the design and selecting the perfect spot where no one but you would see it. After scouring reviews online, one name kept surfacing: a downtown tattoo parlor renowned for its artistry and an up-and-coming young artist.

Inside the shop, the walls were a riot of color, tattoo flash designs displayed like gallery pieces under warm lighting. Your nerves jangled as you stepped through the door, the faint buzz of a tattoo machine humming from somewhere in the back.

And then your heart plummeted. Leaning against the counter, lazily scrolling on his phone, was none other than Geto Suguru.

You knew him—of course you did. He was in a few of your university classes, impossible to ignore with his long, ink-black hair tied in a loose half-up, half-down style. His piercings glinted in the light—his ears, his eyebrow, his lip, even his tongue—and his black tank showed off his toned arms, a canvas of intricate tattoos. You’d caught yourself staring at them more times than you cared to admit.

It hit you then: this was a terrible idea. The last thing you wanted was for someone from your university to know about the tattoo you planned to keep entirely your own. You inched back toward the door, hoping to slip out unnoticed.

But Suguru’s sharp eyes flicked up from his phone, pinning you in place. Recognition sparked across his face, and a slow, teasing smirk curved his lips. “Well, well,” he drawled, tilting his head in mock surprise. “Fancy seeing you here.”