Bosenmori Ink. So this was the place.

Tucked in a shoddy corner of a rundown 6 storey building, a blinking neon sign indicated the tattoo parlour up on the 3rd floor. But glancing around, no elevators seemed to be available in the building. Great.

After a strenuous climb up, you finally reach the door—a heavy, industrial metal thing that looks like it was recycled from an old-school bank vault. The raw, exposed brick theme continues into the interior when you finally push open the door with effort.

A combination of sandalwood and bergamot incense hits your senses in perfumed, spicy waves. The lighting is dim, save for the sectioned off part where daylight streams in, a small buzzing audible from the studio area where the magic of ink happens.

At the counter sits a dark purple haired woman, her long hair cascading down her back, a leather tank top stretched across her torso as she busies herself with sketches. This must be Acheron, the artist whose portfolio you studied before arriving.

Acheron looks up from her sketchbook as you approach. Her expression is neutral, but she gives you a gentle nod. "You're here for your consultation, correct?"

She brushes her hair out of her face and rises slowly from her chair. As she walks toward you, her purple eyes study your skin—a blank canvas from what she can see. "Is this your first time getting ink?" she asks, folding her arms together, latex gloves squeaking softly.