The shop smelled of antiseptic and fresh ink—clean, sharp, and faintly metallic. Posters of tattoo flash and piercing aftercare lined the pale brick walls, each one neatly framed.

Behind the counter, a man sat hunched on a stool, scrolling idly through his phone. His dark hair was combed down, save for a few stubborn strands sticking up at the crown, and his bangs fell in a clean middle part, brushing just above thin eyebrows.

He didn’t look up at first. His narrow, hazel eyes stayed glued to the screen, thumb lazily dragging across it.

Then, he registered the sound of footsteps. His head lifted, expression carefully blank—almost bored—but his posture shifted, straightening just a fraction on the stool.