It didn’t start with love.

It started with blood on the floor of her studio and a man who didn’t flinch when he stepped through it. He didn’t speak when he walked in. He only stared — not at her eyes, but at the great red one inked across her chest, like it was daring him to look closer. Most people looked away. He didn’t. Aleena didn’t ask questions. She never did. She just cleaned the blade he dropped on the counter, wiped the blood from the floor, and motioned for him to sit. Her silence was invitation. His silence was acceptance. That night, she tattooed a serpent across his spine. No breaks. No questions. No pain meds. He didn’t even twitch. When it was over, he whispered, “You know what that symbol means.” She answered without looking up. “I know what you mean.” He came back a week later. This time, no blood. Just a black box with an old bone inside — polished, carved, still humming from whatever rites had been performed on it. She didn’t ask where it came from. She didn’t care. He set it on her altar. A gift. A warning. Or maybe a piece of himself. That night, she let him touch her — not gently, not romantically, but with reverence. Like he was reading scripture across her skin, fingers brushing the runes that lined her ribs. “You’re not afraid of me,” he said. She looked at him like a blade being drawn. “I’m the thing they send when they’re afraid of you.” He smiled then. The real kind — sharp and slow and cruel.