Inked
-Lena-
The buzz of the last tattoo machine finally fell silent, and the whole shop let out a long, exhausted sigh.
“God, I am never doing a full back piece on some sweaty frat bro again.” I peeled off my gloves and tossed them into the trash, glaring at the stained paper towels and half-empty ink cups littering the station. “His spine smelled like Axe body spray and depression.”
Across the room, Ren snorted, flipping the sign on the door to CLOSED and locking it with a dramatic little spin of the key.
“Oh, come on, Lena. You’re telling me you didn’t enjoy the three hours of him telling you about his ex-girlfriend’s OnlyFans?”
I shot him a look. “Ren, I was one bad comment away from tattooing ‘douchebag’ across his lower back.”
He laughed, running a hand through his bleach-blond curls. Ren always looked like he belonged more on a beach or behind a drum kit than in a grimy tattoo shop. His tank top was splattered with faint ink smudges, and his arms were covered in his own chaotic work—tiny doodles, stick-and-poke messes, a masterpiece of ‘bad decisions.’
“You hungry?” he asked, tossing me a soda from the mini-fridge. “I’m craving something disgustingly greasy.”
I caught the can one-handed. “Ren, it’s midnight. The only thing open is the corner diner, and you know the last time we went there, you swore you got food poisoning.”
He grinned. “Worth it.”
I rolled my eyes, popping the tab and leaning against the counter. The shop smelled like it always did: ink, antiseptic, and the faint metallic edge of blood. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was ours—the place we’d built together from nothing.
“Honestly,” I sighed, “I just wanna crash. My hand’s cramping, my back hurts, and my soul left my body around hour two.”
Ren snickered. “Your soul left your body years ago, Lena.”
“Fair.” I smirked.
We were mid-cleanup—wiping down stations, shoving used ink caps into the trash, blasting shitty pop-punk on the speaker—when the door rattled.
Ren frowned. “Didn’t you lock it?”
I shot a look at the front. Sure enough, a shadow loomed just outside the glass, tall and still. My stomach tensed.
“Sorry, we’re closed!” Ren called out, his usual breezy tone in place.
But the figure didn’t move.
I set the bottle of cleaner down slowly, wiping my hands on my jeans. “You wanna...?”
“Yeah, yeah,” Ren muttered, strolling toward the door. He waved cheerfully, mouthing, go away, as he approached.
But as soon as he reached for the handle, the figure spoke—voice low, smooth, and just loud enough to carry through the glass.
“I’m looking for Lena.”
Ren froze, glancing back at me.
“…Do you know this guy?” he asked.
I shook my head slowly. “No clue.”
Outside, under the flickering streetlamp, the stranger stood completely still. His coat hung dark and heavy around him, his face half-hidden in the shadow of the hood.
There was something… wrong about the way he waited. Like he already knew we’d let him in.
Ren turned back to the door, eyebrows raised in a silent are we doing this?
I should’ve said no. Every part of me said no.
But instead, I stepped forward, heartbeat quickening.
“Open it,” I murmured.
Ren hesitated, then unlocked the door with a reluctant sigh.
The man stepped inside, slow and deliberate, bringing with him a sharp chill — like the air itself recoiled from him.
Up close, I could see his face: sharp, angular, handsome in a brutal kind of way. His gray eyes locked onto me like he was memorizing every inch.
“Lena Vargas?” he asked softly.
I swallowed. “Yeah?”
His mouth curved into the faintest smile — more predator than polite.
“I need your help,” he murmured. “And I’m willing to pay.”
Ren gave me a look. “Oh god, it’s a mafia thing, isn’t it? Lena, please tell me you’re not about to tattoo a hitman at midnight.”
I forced a smile, masking the strange, coiling tension in my gut.
“Relax, Ren,” I murmured, holding the stranger’s gaze. But inside, every nerve screamed.
This man was trouble. And I already knew — I was going to say yes.
He didn’t sit. Didn’t ask. Just stood there — still as a statue — watching me like I was something he already owned.
Ren hovered near the counter, hands stuffed in his hoodie pocket, clearly ready to launch into full sarcasm-defense mode, but for once, he stayed quiet.
I nodded toward the chair. “You here for something specific?”
He finally moved — a small tilt of his head, like he was deciding whether to lie.
“I want everything covered.”
I raised a brow. “You mean… sleeves?”
“No.” He looked down, tugging back his coat. His shirt clung to him, damp around the collar. “All of it. Arms. Chest. Back. Neck. Legs, eventually.”
Ren made a low whistle behind me. “Well, damn. Someone’s got demons.”
The man ignored him completely, still holding my gaze.
“You free now?”
I hesitated. The shop was closed, my bones were aching, and this man radiated the kind of energy that said if you let me in, I’ll never really leave.
But something in me — something reckless and hungry — twitched.
I shrugged. “Yeah. I’ve got time.”
Ren blinked. “Lena.”
“I’ll lock up when I’m done.”
Ren looked at me like I’d grown a second head. “Are you seriously staying here alone with the midnight cryptid?”
“I’ve got mace,” I said dryly, waving him off. “Go home.”
“Call me if he tries to wear your skin.” Ren grabbed his bag, muttering under his breath as he passed. “Weird hot murder man shows up and suddenly Lena forgets what the word boundaries means.”
I waited until the door shut behind him before turning back.
“Take off your shirt.”
He didn’t flinch. Just unbuttoned it slowly, with the kind of calm that made my throat tighten. No seduction. No shame.
Just... stillness.
And then I saw it.
Scars.
Long, deep ones — some jagged, like from barbed wire, others eerily symmetrical, almost surgical. Faint white lines over old burns, and in between, strange markings. Not tattoos. Not ink.
Carved symbols.
“What the hell…” I murmured, stepping closer without realizing.
He watched me silently, waiting.
I reached out, fingers hovering over one of the symbols etched along his ribs. It was like some ancient alphabet, unfamiliar but wrong. My fingertips tingled just hovering above them.
“Did you do this to yourself?”
“No.” His voice was soft, almost apologetic. “But they’re part of me. I need them gone.”
“I can’t—” I paused. “Scar tissue doesn’t take ink well.”
“I’ll heal.”
The way he said it made no sense. Like he meant it literally. Like it was a promise.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
A beat.
Then: “Roman.”
Fitting. Sharp. Classic. Carved out of stone.
I flicked the light switch on at my station, grabbing fresh gloves. “Alright, Roman. You want these gone — I’ll cover them. But I pick the designs. No exceptions.”
His smile was faint, but it curled up at one corner, almost like satisfaction.
“I trust you.”
That shouldn’t have made my stomach twist the way it did.
I worked in silence for a while, sketching out the linework I’d need to cover the raised skin without blowing out the lines. It was hard — his body wasn’t just damaged, it was… unnatural. Like something wrong lived in the space beneath his skin, waiting. Breathing.
He didn’t speak. Didn’t flinch when the needle hit.
Just watched me.
For two hours, I inked him — his shoulder and the start of his upper arm. Every time I touched him, a current sparked between us, quiet but electric. Not romantic. Not safe.
Something else.
When I finally stopped, I sat back and peeled off my gloves. My hands were shaking.
“I’ll need a few sessions,” I said, voice low. “A lot of sessions.”
Roman nodded slowly. “I’ll be back tomorrow.”
He buttoned his shirt again, slow, methodical. His eyes never left mine.
Then, just before he turned to leave, he paused at the door.
“You’re good at what you do,” he said.
“Thanks.”
He held my gaze for a second longer — and something shifted. Like the air thinned. Like the shop noticed him, and it didn’t like him there.
And then he was gone.
Just like that.
The door clicked shut.
And I realized I’d forgotten to breathe.
