Gemotions

The tattoo convention buzzed with energy, a chaotic symphony of buzzing needles and amplified music. I wandered through the maze of booths, a notepad clutched in my sweating hand. Everywhere I looked, I saw art, but none of it was mine.

My gut was churning. I’d been here for hours, scanning faces, scrutinizing flesh. My ‘Celestial Navigation’ piece, my most intricate, had been stolen. I’d seen it online, on a few different people. Now I was on the hunt, trying to find the source.

I stopped at a booth selling prints. The artist, a burly man with a shaved head, looked up, a bored expression on his face. I pointed to a flash sheet on the wall, a collection of designs. My design was right there, bold and unashamed. A cold sweat broke out on my forehead.

“That’s mine,” I said, my voice barely a whisper. The man smirked, his eyes glinting with amusement. I knew, in that moment, that this was going to be a long day.