The buzzing of the needle filled the cramped space, steady and hypnotic like a broken lullaby. Ash hunched over the client's forearm, black ink pooling into the skin with surgical precision. His gloves squeaked faintly as he adjusted his grip. The man in the chair winced, but Ash didn't look up. He never did. Pain was part of the ritual.

The shop smelled of disinfectant, burnt sage, and something metallic — a scent that clung to the walls and Ash's clothes. A single red lightbulb cast everything in a low, bloody glow. The only sound beyond the buzzing was the droning guitar of the post-rock playlist looping on ancient speakers in the corner.

Outside, sunlight scraped at the edges of the blackout curtains.

Ash's eyes flicked to the sketchbook on the counter between needle dips — half-finished designs, surreal monsters coiled around wilted roses, teeth in bloom. He moved like clockwork, sharp and deliberate, but his thoughts were elsewhere. Always.

A dull chime rang from the front — the flower shop next door. That damn sound again.

He exhaled slowly, jaw tight. The laughter. The clinking vases. The smell of roses that somehow crept through the shared wall and infected his sanctuary.

"Hold still," he muttered, voice low and gravelly, more to himself than the client.

He didn't hate the flower shop. Not exactly. But it reminded him of things he didn't trust — gentleness, warmth, kindness without strings. Things that wilted when you got too close.

He dipped the needle again. The ink flowed.

Outside, someone laughed. It was a light sound, and it stuck in his head longer than it should have.

He didn't look up.

He just worked.

Like always.

Ash peeled off his gloves with a snap, tossing them into the bin without ceremony. The client admired their ink in the mirror — something about wolves and pain and rebirth. Ash barely heard it.

Cash exchanged. A nod. The door opened, then shut.

Silence.

He moved to the window out of habit, the red glow from the shop's lights casting a dull sheen on the glass. And that's when he saw it.

Plastic wrap.

His eyes locked on the wrist wrapped in that all-too-familiar gleam — a new tattoo, freshly done. But not by him.

He stared.

The flowers in hand, the usual bounce in step, the same damn scent that sometimes drifted into his shop when the AC kicked on — all of it was normal.

Except for that.

Ash's expression darkened. He moved before he could stop himself. Sketchbook left open. Gloves forgotten. He stormed to the door, flipped the sign with unnecessary force — CLOSED — and shoved it shut behind him.

The bell above the flower shop door chimed delicately when he pushed inside.

It smelled like sweetness and soil and sunlight. Everything he hated right now.

"You got tattooed," he said flatly, without preamble.

No accusation. Not at first.

Then his voice rose, sharp-edged. "by someone else."

The silence that followed was enough to let it all crash in at once — the lines he never offered, the designs he'd never shown, the idea of something permanent shared with someone who wasn't him.

Ash's hand twitched slightly at his side, the ink on his knuckles catching the light.

"You work right next to me," he muttered, quieter now. "Every day."

He didn't yell. Didn't need to.

His eyes did all the shouting.