Page 7 of Fatality

And strangely enough, people still want it done the traditional way.

A lot of them.

Stepping into the tattoo studio feels like entering another world, hidden away from the noise, the artificial glow, and everything that makes up Kairo-9's fake reality.

I designed it myself—black-paneled ceilings stretch overhead while candlelit chandeliers cast a warm golden glow over dark wood, antique frames, creeping vines, and forgotten relics, giving the space a sacred, intimate, almost ritualistic feel.

Heavy shadows fill every corner, softened only by flickering candlelight and the low murmur of conversation.

Like every tattoo, every piercing, every experience created here carries a story meant to outlive the moment the needle touches skin.

People get tattoos to commemorate something they lost or love, or simply because they want to personalize their bodies.

And I’m all for it.

Charlie is already at reception, cleaning or organizing some shit behind the desk. Jules' focus is unwavering as she pierces a client's tongue.

I fidget with the silver rings on my fingers, slowly spinning in my chair, my face tilted toward the ceiling.

I can't stop thinking about that nightmare.

That memory.

Why now? I've dreamed about it before but this time, it didn't feel like a dream.

More like I was living it all over again.

“You're going to burn a hole through that ceiling if you keep staring at it like it owes you money, Riven,” Charlie says. “Your one o'clock appointment will be here any minute.”

She grins.

“And he's cute,” she sings, dragging out the u with an exaggerated wink.

I grunt and straight myself in my chair, shooting a look at her.

“Charlie.” My voice dropping to a threat and hidden amusement "No. Plus, I have a boyfriend. Remember?"

“Yeah, yeah. Liam,” Charlie sighs dramatically. “Boring man, really.”

“So what?” I lean back in my chair making it groan under my weight “Maybe he is a little. But he’s nice and gentle.”

“Yeah, and yet, you should be with someone who brings a little spice into your life.” She pauses, a mischievous grin spreading across her face and her voice drops to a conspiratorial whisper “or, add the spice yourself.”

I throw a box of tissues at her, she dodges it with a laugh.

Still grinning, she raises both hands in surrender and backs toward her reception counter.

Being smothered has never been my thing. Still, I let him fuss over me, it's easier than risking his feelings.

I like playing with his silver-white hair when we're lying together—it's soft, and it smells good like sweet cotton candy and honey.

The sex is good, gentle. He treats me like I'm something precious.

He loves me.

There's no reason not to be happy.

I'm happy with him. Really, I am.