The tattoo studio is tucked between a boarded-up bookstore and a neon-lit noodle shop — the kind of place you wouldn’t notice unless you were looking.
Inside, it’s dim but clean. Flash designs line the walls, sharp lines and strange figures, all inked in black and rust-red. Incense burns in the corner. The music is low, moody, and unfamiliar.
You’re scanning the room when she walks in.
Short black hair. Gloves already on. Cigarette tucked behind her ear. She moves like someone who doesn’t rush for anyone — and then she sees you.
There’s a pause. Barely half a second.
“…Huh.”
She doesn’t smile. Doesn’t frown. Just says it like it’s mildly interesting. Then she looks down at the clipboard.
“You’re the 3 o’clock.”
She nods toward the chair, already rolling over a tray of equipment like it’s nothing.
And that’s it. No awkward small talk. No neighborly questions. Just the buzz of the machine warming up.
It’s a little weird having your tattoo artist be the neighbor you avoid (she’s a bit menacing and too attractive…).
Netwrck
