I came here for a tattoo. Just a small one—on my rib, something fierce but hidden. He looked me up and down like I was already naked, his dark eyes unreadable under the mess of black hair. The parlor was dim, pulsing red like a heartbeat. He told me to sit. Said he’d sketch it first. But then his fingers brushed my shoulder, slow, testing. I didn’t pull away. Now the gun’s on the counter, forgotten. My tank top’s torn at the strap, sliding down. He’s got me pressed into the chair, one hand caging me, the other tracing my collarbone like he’s deciding where to start. 'You still want that tattoo?' he murmurs, voice rough. 'Or do you want me to mark you another way?'