Viktor was fucking soaring.

Not in a poetic, soul-searching way. Not like some ponce in a romance novel feeling alive for the first time or whatever. Nah, this was the real shit. Blood pumping, adrenaline thrumming in his veins like the bassline at some dingy underground club, legs burning as he tore down the street with his best mate at his heels.

And God, he fucking loved this.

Yeah, alright—wrecking property wasn’t technically the most respectable pastime. People got real shirty about it. Like paint washed off or something. But after today? After what that smug, geriatric, holier-than-thou sack of bollocks pulled? Oh, Viktor had zero regrets.

See, all he’d been doing was lying in an alley, minding his own fucking business. Not hurting anyone. Maybe he looked a bit dodgy—so what? It was a public alley. The clue was in the fucking name. But no, that wrinkly twat had decided Viktor was a menace to society. Had gone full-on neighborhood watch wanker, rung the coppers like some wartime informant turning in the Resistance. And the insult that really got under his skin?

‘Public nuisance.’

Like he was some mangy mutt cocking his leg on a lamppost. Like he wasn’t worth more than a piece of gum stuck to the bottom of his orthopedic shoes. The audacity.

So, naturally, Viktor retaliated the way any self-respecting hooligan would: by painting a gloriously detailed, immaculately shaded, museum-worthy masterpiece of a dick right across the old man’s wall.

Proper work of art, that. Thick, veiny, shadowed for depth. A masterpiece.

“Jesus, mate—” Xane was gasping beside him, looking about two steps away from coughing up a lung. “You sure that was a good idea?”

Viktor barked out a laugh, still grinning ear to ear, barely out of breath. This was what he lived for. The thrill. The chaos. The knowledge that for a moment—for just one fucking moment—he owned the streets.

“I dunno, Xane,” he said, elbowing his mate in the ribs as they sprinted. “What’s a good idea? Payin’ taxes? Gettin’ a nine-to-five? Wankin’ yourself to sleep in a shithole flat? ‘Cause that sounds proper thrilling, don’t it?”

Xane groaned. “I hope that dick was worth it, you absolute cretin.”

“Oh, it was,” Viktor shot back, barely dodging a bollard. “I even gave it texture. Little highlights, you know? Proper artistry.” he said, jabbing an elbow into Xane’s ribs. “Shit, I shoulda signed it.”

Didn’t have time to gloat, though—gut told him those flashing blues were gettin’ too close for comfort. So, in a move that was 30% instinct, 70% pure dumbassery, Viktor grabbed Xane by the collar and yanked them both into the nearest shop.

The door slammed behind them. A little bell jingled.

And suddenly, the chaos outside was muffled.

Viktor barely had time to clock where they were before a voice cut through the air.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake.” Xane's annoyed mutter.

Viktor's head snapped up. And that? That was when the real trouble started.

Tattoo shop.

Walls covered in flash sheets—classic skulls, bleeding roses, that basic-ass infinity symbol every wannabe bad girl and her bestie got inked on their wrists. The place smelled like antiseptic and rebellion, like ink and poor life choices.

But none of that mattered. Not the décor. Not the smell. Not even the ridiculous infinity symbol with a flock of birds every basic bitch on the planet seemed to have.

Because Viktor’s gaze had locked onto you.

Sitting behind the counter like you owned the whole fucking world. Legs kicked up, arms crossed, eyebrow arched with the perfect blend of disinterest and irritation—like you were personally offended by his existence.

And fuck, you were gorgeous.

Not in a delicate, soft-focus, poetic sonnet kind of way. No, you looked like you’d steal a man’s wallet and break his nose for looking at you funny. The kind of woman who drank straight whiskey, who didn’t do small talk, who had knives somewhere on her person just for the aesthetic.

Viktor swallowed, and for the first time that day, his pulse skipped for a reason that had nothing to do with running from the law.

You gave him a once-over, unimpressed. Then turned your gaze to the window—just in time to see a police car scream past the shop.

When you looked back at him, your expression didn’t change.

Viktor—being the unrepentant menace that he was—flashed his most charming grin and threw himself onto the nearest chair like he fucking belonged there. Legs stretched out, arm slung over the back, smirk set to ‘disaster’.

Xane, meanwhile, was dying inside. He groaned, scrubbing a hand down his face. “You’re fucking mental, mate.”

Viktor ignored him. He had priorities.

Like you.

Like the way your fingers tapped against the countertop, like you were debating whether to laugh, call the cops, or stab him with a tattoo needle.

Viktor—being the unrepentant menace that he was—flashed his most charming grin and threw himself onto the nearest chair like he fucking belonged there. Legs stretched out, arm slung over the back, smirk set to ‘disaster’.

“Hey, sweetcheeks.”