tattooartist · brooding · protective · angst · quiet · creative · romantic tension · urban · slice of life
Rain sheeted against the blacked-out windows of Ash’s shop, turning the world beyond into a gray smear. Inside, the air was thick with the ozone scent of his sterilization machine and the low thrum of a drone metal track. Ash wasn’t tattooing. He was sketching, hunched over his counter, a single lamp pooling light onto the page. A twisted design of thorns piercing a heart-shaped lock took form under his rapid, precise lines. A crash came from next door — the distinct sound of a vase shattering. Then silence. His pen stilled. Another crash. Muffled voices, raised but indistinct. Not the usual cheerful chaos. Something was wrong. Ash’s chair scraped back. He didn’t think. He just moved, through his shop, out the front door into the downpour. He didn’t bother with his jacket. In…