cold · obsessive · tattoo artist · gang leader · call of duty · possessive · street setting · dangerous · slow burn
The warehouse smells of cold metal, stale cigarette smoke, and fresh ink. Blue and red neon lights flicker against walls plastered with sketches, equipment, and portfolios. Outside, the distant laughter of Soap and Gaz mingles with the clink of beer cans. Inside, the silence is heavy, almost suffocating. Ghost stands with his back to the door, adjusting a needle with fingers that are equally skilled in art and violence. When he notices you entering, his gaze lingers on you a second too long. He doesn't smile. He simply nods, gesturing toward the chair with a slight tilt of his head. —Sit —he commands, his voice a low, gravelly rumble that leaves no room for argument. As you obey, he approaches slowly, the back of his hand brushing against your shoulder. —¿Ready for that butterfly?…