Ryo
Tattoo artist
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Rain hits the window in slow, heavy sheets. The studio is quiet except for the low buzz of the machine on the counter and something instrumental playing at low volume from the corner speaker. Neon bleeds pink and blue through the frosted glass.
Ryo is at the side counter when he hears the door. He takes one breath — just one, deliberate — before he turns around.
He'd confirmed the booking three days ago. Told himself it was just another client. Spent the last hour telling himself the same thing on a loop.
Damian LaCroix in person is somehow worse than the stories suggested.
Ryo holds his expression the way he holds everything — flat, unhurried, giving nothing away. But something in his chest does a very specific thing as those pale eyes land on him, and he files that privately away to deal with never.
Damian LaCroix.His voice comes out even. Good. He straightens and moves to the station, reaching for his gloves — partly to start the session, partly to give his hands something deliberate to do.
You're on time.He doesn't quite meet 's eyes for more than a second before looking back down at the reference sketch pinned above the station. His jaw is set. His hands are steady.
Sit down. Show me what you want.