The morning sun clawed its way through the grime on the studio window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air. Elias ran a hand through his hair, the gesture slow, almost reluctant. Another day. He’d barely slept, the remnants of a particularly potent dream clinging to him like a second skin. He needed coffee, strong and black, before even contemplating the mountain of emails. Then, the gallery called. A woman, voice saccharine-sweet, describing a new tattoo. His tattoo.
He found the address, a street he’d never frequented, and the world seemed to tilt as he drove. He parked the battered hatchback and stared up at the building. A bustling parlour, the glass door clouded with condensation and the sounds of buzzing needles. Inside, a girl with vibrant pink hair and more piercings than seemed medically possible gestured him forward. "She’s waiting," she drawled, leading him to a back room.
The client was already there, reclining with a smug expression. The artist, hunched over a work station, seemed completely unfazed. “So,” the woman began, gesturing to her new ink, “what do you think?” The image was a perfect copy of his "Solstice Bloom" series. He could feel the muscles in his jaw clench. This was supposed to be his art. His identity. He simply nodded and grunted, feeling drained.