Chapter 1 — Inked in Silence
Seoul never truly sleeps.
Not even in the quieter corners — like the back alley where Midnight Ink sits, nestled between a convenience store and a laundromat, its blacked-out windows hiding more stories than its walls could contain.
It was nearly midnight.
The neon sign above the glass door flickered, humming low.
Inside, only one light stayed on — a desk lamp shining on your sketchbook, your pencil moving in slow, steady strokes.
You sat cross-legged behind the counter, oversized hoodie swallowing your figure, earbuds playing a soft instrumental track as your fingers traced out another mandala wrapped in wildflowers.
Drawing calmed you.
The outside world didn’t.
Especially when your name came attached with “scholarship girl,” “outsider,” and worse — “perfect.”
You weren’t perfect.
You were quiet, yes.
Disciplined.
Invisible when needed.
But under all that?
You were exhausted — from holding up expectations you never asked for, from a past you never let anyone know.
Which is why Midnight Ink became your haven.
No one asked questions here.
No one cared about GPA or background.
Only skin, pain, and art.
And tonight?
You thought it would be just like every other shift.
Until the door burst open.
---
The sudden bang made you flinch, nearly knocking your pencil off the desk.
You looked up — and froze.
Standing in the doorway, soaked in moonlight and attitude, was Kim Taehyung.
The kind of boy campus legends were made of.
Not for grades. Not for charm.
But for fights.
For the ink crawling down his arms and neck.
For the rumors — about his gang family, his arrest last year, the girl he’d once sent to the hospital.
You didn’t believe half of them.
But seeing him now — shirt clinging to his frame, a bruise forming on his jaw, knuckles raw — you wondered if maybe you should’ve.
He shut the door with a lazy push and walked in.
The room felt smaller instantly.
The smell of smoke and rain clung to him.
And yet, he didn’t look at anything… except you.
“Didn’t know you worked here,” he said, voice smooth and low, like a sin sliding over skin.
You blinked. “I… cover the late shifts sometimes.”
He pulled something from his jacket and dropped it on the counter.
A piece of paper — crumpled, but familiar.
Your sketch.
The one you’d drawn last week while zoning out during a lecture. A floral lotus bloom, delicate and balanced, with your name “Prachi” woven subtly in the design using Sanskrit strokes.
You never showed it to anyone.
He must’ve taken it from the classroom pinboard where your professor had hung a few samples.
“Tattoo this,” he said.
You frowned. “What?”
“On me,” he clarified, tugging his hoodie off with one hand and letting it fall to the floor.
You choked on your own breath.
He was covered in ink — dragons, skulls, words in Latin and Hangul, black roses, Roman numerals along his ribs.
His body looked like it had been carved by war and worship alike.
And just above his heart — was a clean space.
“I’m not licensed yet,” you said quickly, backing up. “I only help. I’m not—”
“I know,” he said, stepping closer. “But I want you to do it.”
Your mouth went dry.
“Why?” you whispered.
He stared at you. Hard. Intense.
Then said the three words that changed everything:
“Because it’s yours.”
---
You should’ve refused.
Should’ve told him it was reckless.
But your fingers reached for the stencil printer anyway.
Because something about the way he stood there — still bleeding, still smirking — made your stomach twist with fear and something far worse…
Curiosity.
---
Twenty minutes later, he was in the back room.
Shirtless.
Laid back in the chair.
Watching you prepare the tools.
He didn’t speak.
Didn’t blink.
Just kept his eyes on you.
“You know this might hurt,” you murmured.
He smiled.
“Only if it’s real.”
You swallowed hard.
Held the needle.
Pressed it to his skin.
And the moment the first drop of ink met blood—
He exhaled.
Like it wasn’t pain.
Like it was relief.
---
You worked slowly.
Carefully.
His chest rose and fell steadily under your hand.
Every now and then, he murmured your name.
Just once.
Just to taste it.
And when it was done —
When the ink was wiped and the stencil peeled back —
You stepped away.
But he didn’t move.
He looked down at your name etched into his skin.
Then up at you.
Eyes dark.
Voice low.
“Now I’m yours.”
---
You turned to leave.
He caught your wrist.
Pulled you gently.
Too close.
His forehead leaned against yours.
“Let’s see how long you can pretend you don’t want me too.”
And then, just like that —
He was gone.
Leaving behind the echo of your name bleeding over his heart.
---
End of Chapter 1.
