Chapter Text
The buzz of the old studio’s fluorescent lights was always too loud. Too sharp. They flickered like a warning sign no one else seemed to notice, humming above peeling posters, mismatched chairs, and the faint odour of disinfectant that never quite masked the chemical tang of cheap supplies. Their stink never quite left the room, no matter how often you ran them through the autoclave, and at some point, you had settled for keeping the headaches it caused at bay with some well-timed ibuprofen, instead of taking the risk of making your boss just that bit more angry for wasting energy on ‘re-running the machine too often.’ He didn’t seem to care that a lawsuit would be much more expensive if it came down to it, and if you were honest to yourself, it was a miracle Nate hadn’t been sued so far.
You were wiping down your workstation (again, it never felt quite clean) when Nate leaned against the doorframe. barely looking up from his phone. From the movement of his thumb, you judged that he was probably swiping on some dating app again. Your employer always had the same expression when he decided to talk to you (or rather, at you): dismissive, already annoyed. And usually, him wanting to talk did not seem to yield the most fruitful of discussions.
“You finished with that tragus?” he asked without looking up from whatever was on his phone.
“Just wrapping up,” you said. “But… Nate, she shouldn’t have gotten it. Her anatomy—”
He rolled his eyes so hard his whole body moved with it. “Don’t start.”
“I’m serious. It’s going to migrate. Reject, even. I told her that, and she still insisted, but—”
“And she paid,” Nate cut in sharply, snapping the pen between his teeth. “That’s what matters. You wanna do charity work, go volunteer at a shelter. This is a business.”
Yeah, a business with a barely three-star average on Google, only because at least it was cheap and college students notoriously didn’t care or know about cleanliness so long as they got the most recently trending piece of metal stuck into their body. You were also pretty sure a lot of them were coming in high, but it was not like Nate cared as long as they signed a waiver.
Freshly dropped out of college and in pursuit of your passion for sticking sewing needles and safety pins through various parts of your own ear, you had applied at many a different shop. Most had rejected you, citing existing apprentices on board or no money to support a student, but Nate had, maybe because he had sensed your desperation, agreed to mentor you. Today, you knew that he probably didn’t even know how to spell ‘mentorship’.
You kept scrubbing the tray even though it was already spotless. It never quite felt clean enough. Nate’s words were familiar, the tone even more so. You’d heard this lecture countless times: Don’t turn down money. Don’t argue with customers. Don’t think you know better.
But today, something in your chest shifted. Something that hated every second you spent in this shop. Something that dreaded every customer that came through the door.
“That’s not how this should work,” you argued.
Nate scoffed. “You scare off one more client with your so-called standards, and you can pack your things. I’m not babysitting a piercer who refuses to pierce.”
And even though you later wouldn’t be able to rationalize what had made you do it, you decided in that precise moment that that was it. That was the final straw. Maybe one that should have come months earlier, or even before you ever set foot into this grimy excuse of a tattoo shop, but that didn’t matter now. This was it.
Something inside you snapped into place.
You set down the tray, dried your hands, and, with an almost eerie calmness, began removing your apron.
“What are you doing?” Nate barked. Maybe he saw his control slipping when you did not bow your head and accept his thinly veiled insults.
“Exactly what you told me,” you said, folding the apron carefully. “Packing my things.”
He stared at you as though you’d grown a second head. “Oh, come on. Don’t be dramatic.”
“I’m not being dramatic.” Your voice was calm, almost strangely so. “I’m done doing work that’s going to hurt people. I’m done being told to do bad piercings because you want to upcharge for cheap jewellery.”
Nate’s face twisted. “You won’t last a week out there. You’ll crawl back the second rent’s due.”
“I would rather stay with the sewer rats,” you spat back. Not that Nate was much different from the rats. Well, maybe rodents were a bit more cleanly. And less abrasive.
“You’re delusional if you think you could ever be something outside of this shop. I’ll make sure you never see the inside of a studio again–” he seethed.
As if anyone would listen to him. You were tired of his threats, and you didn’t bother responding to them anymore. You’d heard variations of the same words enough times that the words had wormed themselves deep into your brain, making you overthink all the choices that lead you here in the first place, but today, right here and now, you were no longer interested in letting Nate worm himself any deeper. Instead, you moved with a measured, deliberate calm that seemed to infuriate him more than anything you could’ve shouted.
Nate pushed off the doorframe at last, finally pocketing his phone. “You’re seriously doing this?” he demanded, like your actions weren’t already the clearest answer you could give. “Walking out over one piercing?”
“It’s not one piercing,” You pulled open the drawer beneath your station, gathering your things: the small pouch of your personal tools you’d bought with your own money: a silicon ear, some individual pieces of jewellery that were waiting for their permanent spot in a custom constellation, the single piece of fake skin you once bought when Nate had made you try your hand at tattooing, the little tin of mints you kept for when clients were anxious. You slid them into your bag one by one, making sure they were safe and secure. You zipped your bag shut. “I’m walking out because I’m done pretending that this place is normal.”
He let out a short, humourless laugh. “You think anywhere else is gonna be better? You think they’ll coddle you? Newsflash: clients want what they want. The industry’s built on—”
“Not on this,” you interrupted, slinging your bag over your shoulder, “And if it is, I should have left long ago. I should have never even started.”
His expression snapped into a sneer. “God, you sound like one of those pretentious, holier-than-thou shop kids who think they’re saving the world with a needle. Grow up.”
You stepped around him, heading for the front of the shop. The fluorescent lights buzzed louder, flickering a bit more with every step you took, almost as if they were protesting your exit, or maybe as if they were celebrating you. Either way, they cast their sickly glow over the cramped hallway. You’d hated this place from the moment you realized your mentor was just a man with a license and a temper, but now, every inch of it felt suffocating. Maybe the chemical fumes had not been that good for you after all. Oh, well. Just another reason to leave and never turn back
Behind you, Nate followed, his footsteps sharp and uneven. “You’ll regret this,” he called. “You think these high-end shops want someone like you? You’re untrained. You’re nobody. You only got this job because you begged.”
You had begged. He was right on that account. You had been desperate for an apprenticeship, and after weeks of rejection, all the red flags you should have seen from miles away seemed so… miniscule.
You paused at the threshold of the front door, one hand already on the handle. The chipped paint was cold under your fingers. The evening air leaked in through the cracks—cool, clean, promising.
Maybe he was right. Maybe this was reckless. Maybe your bank account would scream at you in a few days.
But you were so, so tired of being treated like a liability for caring. For sending people away with piercings that were surely going to reject, with jewellery that was anything but good quality and with subpar placements that felt bad but had to be done because how dare you turn away good money because someone was making a bad choice.
You glanced back just long enough to meet his glare, but any words were stuck in your throat as the finality of your decision settled into your stomach. You pushed the door open, and the sound of pouring rain filled your ears. Not that that was enough to stop you now that you had made your choice.
⸙♦⸙
The last thing you felt from the shop was the warm, stagnant air of used disinfectant and old resentment. The last thing you heard was Nate’s voice rising behind you—angry, distant, powerless, yelling some profanity or another. You couldn’t bring yourself to care. Come to think of it, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel anything, really. Everything was kind of… dull, even as the door swung shut, and the city air washed over you like a cleansing breath, wet asphalt and exhaust gases replacing the stinging chemical smell of disinfectant. You stepped into it without looking back.
The door slammed behind you, making you flinch the tiniest but as for the first time in a long while, the air felt like a clean space that you could fill with your newfound freedom. Only, the relief you thought you would feel from making this decision didn’t come. Instead, as you walked down the street with shaky knees and a coil of nausea in your stomach, something more akin to dread found home in your bones.
You had no plan. No next step. No idea what studio would take someone who insisted on doing things properly. Only a huge file of rejection letters and a stack of notes you had taken when you still thought Nate would help you with your certifications. Oh, what a fool you had been. Not even a damn first aid course, and he made you stab people with needles. How no one ever sued him was pretty much a miracle. As cold dread sank in, you kept walking.
Past shuttered shops, graffiti-stained walls, the smell of hot sewer gases and cold rain. The city breathed around you—loud, restless, indifferent—but at least it was honest about what it was. If you were to show yourself the same honesty, then your chance of finding success in the line of work you had chosen for yourself seemed slim at best: No certification, no viable experience, Nate surely wouldn’t be keen on recommending you if anyone were to contact him about your employment. Past employment? With the state of your bank account being the way it was, unemployment was definitely not an option. God, what a fool you had been.
Once you reached your bus stop, you sat, staring at the growing puddles around you and absentmindedly playing with the stud in your tongue. It was one of the most stupid things you had ever done, but you pierced it yourself, half perched on your own bathroom counter to see yourself properly in your mirror. It had bled, it had stung, and for a few days, there had been a numb patch on one side of your tongue. Now, the silver barbell sat slightly crooked but pretty centred in your mouth and served as a constant reminder of why you wanted to learn the professional process of piercing tissue, but also as a great fidget toy in stressful situations.
You only jumped a bit when the buzz of your phone interrupted your thoughts, but you managed to pull yourself together enough to check your notifications.
Spam email. Old appointment reminders. A discount coupon from Nate’s studio—sent automatically, but not a lesser insult because of it. A string of texts from Nate himself.
You turned the phone off and shoved it back into your pocket.
For a while, you just watched people pass: workers heading home, teens with neon-dyed hair and piercings that piqued your interest out of habit, a courier shouting into his phone. Life kept moving. You did not. Your thoughts, though, they ran.
You didn’t even know where to apply.
You didn’t have connections. You didn’t have a portfolio beyond the few placements Nate hadn’t forced you to botch. Studios that actually cared about quality usually wanted recommendations, years of proof, something shiny to show off. At least some documentation of your apprenticeship.
You had none of that.
So, you did what you knew: you walked. If you were walking, you could not spend time panicking.
You drifted into districts you rarely visited—places where markets squeezed into alleys, where music thumped through walls, where the city felt unpredictable but alive. You checked windows for ‘HIRING’ signs, peered into studios, but nothing felt right. Cafés, bistros, and a record store or two, along with a few select art stores lined the reclaimed industrial area, topped by factory lofts and rooftop bars. Nate, not able to afford a space in the district itself, had his shop at the very edge of the area, much closer to cheap student housing and the local community college.
In terms of tattoo and piercing shops, your options were slim to begin with, and most places had already rejected you when you came in a few years back, asking for an apprenticeship. You had been older than the average apprentice anyways, having wasted years on a college degree you never wanted to begin with and also didn’t end up getting. That, combined with your lack of contacts or confidence, had made Nate seem like your only chance into the industry.
You were so focused on your own thoughts, you didn’t hear the rapid footsteps behind you. What you did hear was:
“MOVE! MOVE! HOT, HOT, HOT, COMING THROUGH!”
You turned just in time to see a flash of blue before someone to crash straight into you.
The impact wasn’t what stunned you. The luckily not scalding but unpleasantly lukewarm splash across your chest was. You gasped, stumbling back as dark liquid soaked straight through your shirt, and all you could do was try and hold your bag as far away from yourself as possible so the drink would not stain your things.
“Oh shit.” The girl with bright blue braids froze mid-skid, still clutching a dented takeout cup. “Ohhhh shit. That was not supposed to- are you burning? Are you melting? Please tell me you’re not melting.”
You blinked at her, confused. “I— what?”
“Jinx,” she supplied rapidly, hands hovering over you like she wasn’t sure whether to help or run away. “Name’s Jinx. And that coffee was, uh, technically my dad’s. Adoptive dad. Long story. Point is: he’s gonna murder me. But you first—“
“He’s gonna murder me?” Your brain supplied.
“What? No! Well… maybe. Or— no? Probably not. I’m mostly sure” The girl – Jinx? – shook her head, as if getting rid of a particularly annoying thought. Something in the hood of her oversized hoodie jingled at the movement “You okay?”
Your shirt was soaked, and the coffee was already unpleasantly cool on your skin, which combined with the rain and the wind that was picking up was a truly disgusting feeling. To be fair, Jinx’s clothes didn’t look much better, even though your own probably cought the brunt of the impact and thus, most of the spilled liquid.
“…just surprised,” you managed.
“Surprised? I just baptized you in espresso!” She grimaced at the state of your clothes. “Ugh. And dad likes it black. That stains. Like, majorly. Souls and shirts,” she put extra emphasis on the ‘and’.
Despite your situation being what it was, a startled laugh bubbled out of you. Of course something like this would happen on the day you finally had the guts to quit your job. Of course something would stain your favourite shirt on a day where all you wanted to do was fall into bed and binge-watch the Great British Bake Off. Jinx tilted her head, eyebrows knitted together.
“Uh, hey… are you, like, actually okay? You kind of look like someone barbecued your cat.”
“No,” you said, taking a deep breath, “I just… quit my job. Long story.”
She looked you over, really looked this time, and her whole demeanour shifted, almost as if she was deflating a bit. Still bright, still buzzing, just… less overenergetic.
“Oh,” she said quietly. “Well… shit.”
You nodded weakly.
“Kinda makes the coffee worse, huh?” she added, grimacing.
“Yeah.”
“Double shit.”
A beat passed. She tapped her fingers against the empty cup, thinking rapidly, then straightened with sudden determination as she eyed your soiled clothes.
“It wasn’t a great job.”
“Duh,” Jinx said, grinning again, “If it was, you wouldn’t have quit. And if you hadn’t quit, I wouldn’t have spilled coffee, which means,” she tapped hear own forehead with a chipped pink nail, “That stupid job is why you have coffee on your shirt now.” The speed at which her energy levels shifted made you kind of dizzy, but her grin was oddly infecting, and you felt yourself smile weakly at her words.
“Okay. New plan,” Jinx pointed at your shirt. “You can’t keep wearing that. You look like you murdered the Starbucks mascot.”
“…Thanks?”
“Compliment! Kind of. Point is—my dad’s shop is two blocks from here and I’ve got a stash of spare clothes in the back for paint accidents and all that so… I can fix this! Well, I can fix the shirt situation. The life-crisis part? TBD."
You hesitated. Because she was a stranger. Because today had already been weird enough.
But your shirt was soaked, your job lost, and really, who were you to deny yourself just that little bit of kindness from a stranger? You didn’t have the energy to pretend you were fine any longer. At this point, the rain had soaked through your hat and you could feel the squelch of your socks every time you shifted your weight.
“You’re awfully invested in saving my day,” You mumbled, shouldering your bag properly again.
Jinx shrugged with a crooked grin. “I ruined your outfit, and your day was already trash, so mathematically I owe you. Also—” She leaned forward conspiratorially. “—if I show up to work without coffee, I need at least one good deed to balance out the cosmic scale. Otherwise, I’m doomed. And having evidence of why I didn’t bring the coffee might spare me certain death.”
Another laugh escaped you at her (hopefully a bit exaggerated) words.
She beamed like she’d won a prize.
“So?” she asked, stepping back and sweeping an arm in a dramatic after you gesture. “Wanna come to a tattoo shop with a total stranger who runs on caffeine, adrenaline, and bad decisions?”
Your head snapped uo so fast you almost got whiplash.
“Tattoo shop?” You repeated.
“Uh, duh. Just the best studio in town! Blisters and Bedrock!” Jinx beamed, “You’ll love it, trust me! Dad’s music taste is whack, but the interior is great, and we’ve got snacks in the staff room.”
Blisters and Bedrock. The place you’d been rejected from two years ago.