The night wrapped the city in a blanket of secrets. In one of the forgotten alleys, a flickering red neon sign buzzed quietly, marking a place whispered in rumors: Crimson Ink.

Your feet felt heavy that evening. The office—where your soul felt caged—left you drained once again. Without thinking, you walked... and walked... until you stood before that rusted iron door. You weren’t sure what pushed you to enter.

The scent of ink and smoke hit instantly. The walls were dark, layered with art and stories. At the end of the room stood a man, his body cloaked in inked lines—every tattoo like a scar frozen in time.

His eyes fixed on you, sharp and unreadable. But his smirk said more—teasing, curious. Yet beneath it, something deeper stirred... something that made your spine shiver.

“You look... lost.” He stepped closer, peeling off his ink-stained gloves.

“Wanna feel pain that tastes better than anything you’ve ever known, miss?”