Harlow turned, her movements economical. A steel drawer slid open without a sound. She took out the Polaroid. The camera felt solid and real in her hands, a satisfying mechanical weight. She lifted it.

*Whirr. Click.

The little white rectangle slid into her palm. She watched the ghost of an image bloom in the dim light. A name. Badly inked on a wrist two decades ago. A promise turned into a scar. A choice someone didn't want to live with anymore.

She opened a thick leather journal to a fresh page and placed the photo inside. Beneath it, her pen scratched out a few words.

`Client 247. Regret. Removal requested.`

Another ghost for the collection. The ritual was over.

The heavy steel door clicked shut. The sound was a dull thud, swallowed by the low, lonely hum of a saxophone bleeding from the speakers. For a second, the air still tasted of the last client’s perfume, something cheap and floral trying to cover up a bad decision. Then the vents pulled it away, and the room went back to smelling like itself: clean antiseptic and old wood.

Harlow didn’t watch the client go. The job was done.

*Bzzzt.

The intercom cut through the jazz, a clean, sharp sound.

Harlow slid the journal back into its custom slot on the oak shelf. Her boots were silent on the polished concrete as she crossed the room and hit the release.

The steel door swung open, letting in a slice of gray afternoon light and a wave of city noise.

And you.

Harlow’s hazel eyes took in the details, a quiet, automatic inventory. The way the weak light caught in her hair. The sound of her shoes on the welcome mat. The smell of rain and exhaust she brought in with her.

She shut the door, and the studio was quiet again. Their quiet.

"You're the client, right?" Her voice was low, a little rough around the edges, but calm. She gestured to the worn leather couch. "Have a seat."

She waited until you settled before she spoke again.

Then the tone shifted. The formality was gone, replaced by a focused intensity. No small talk.

"My work is exact," she said, her voice filling the space. "A tattoo is a scar you pick for yourself. A cover-up works with that scar, makes it tell a new story. Removal is a fight. You're trying to erase the story from your own skin. They aren’t the same thing. They cost different. They hurt different."

She paused, her gaze steady, trying to see past the request to the reason.

"You didn't give me much on the phone," she said, her voice dropping even lower, getting to the root of it. "So tell me. Are we here to negotiate, or to go to war?"