Chapter 1: The Mark of Trouble

The steady, electric hum of my tattoo machine fills the quiet studio. I press my foot on the pedal and guide the needle across Julian’s shoulder blade, keeping my hand completely steady. The smell of green soap and rubbing alcohol hangs heavy in the room. This is my space, my business, and my rules.

“Don’t move, Julian,” I say, keeping my voice level. “If you twitch now, this line ruins, and I don’t give people ugly tattoos.”

Julian lets out a quiet laugh. His broad back flexes under my gloved hand, but he holds still. “I don’t move when you’re working, Sienna. You know I trust you.”

“Good. Keep it that way.”

He has been coming to my studio once a month for the last six months. He always pays in cash, never complains about the price, and always asks for clean geometric pieces. He is polite, well-dressed, and quiet. He is the ideal client.

I wipe away the excess black ink with a paper towel and lean in closer. The design is intricate. It is a sharp wolf head made of interlocking geometric shapes, with a distinct, complex symbol placed right at the center. It took me three hours to draw the stencil, and we are on hour four of pushing ink into his skin.

I lift my foot off the pedal. The machine stops buzzing, leaving only the quiet sound of the street traffic outside my shop window.

“All done,” I say, snapping off my black nitrile gloves and tossing them into the trash bin. “Take a look.”

Julian sits up from the table, stretching his arms before turning around to face the full-length mirror on the wall. He looks at his shoulder for a long moment, staring directly at the symbol in the middle of the wolf.

“This is perfect,” he says, his voice flat and calm. “You did a great job, Sienna.”

“I always do,” I tell him, walking over to my counter to grab my camera. “Let me get a quick photo of the linework before I wrap it up.”

Julian turns his head back toward me. His eyes narrow slightly. “No faces in the picture.”

“You know my policy. I only take photos of the ink. I don’t care about your face.”

I adjust the focus on my camera and step close to his back. The lighting overhead hits his skin just right. The lines are dark, precise, and completely clean. I take four high-resolution photos, making sure the symbol in the center stands out clearly.

Once I finish, I grab a sheet of dermal wrap and smooth it over his fresh tattoo. He stands up, pulls his shirt back on, and reaches into his back pocket. He pulls out a thick stack of hundred-dollar bills and sets it on my glass counter.

“Keep the change,” he says.

I glance at the money. It is double my usual rate. “This is too much, Julian.”

“It is fine. You earned it.” He pulls open the front door of the shop, the small bell above the frame ringing once. “Have a good night, Sienna.”

“You too. See you next month.”

I watch him walk out into the dark street and disappear around the corner. Once he is gone, I lock the front door and turn off the main studio lights, leaving only the desk lamp on behind my counter.

I plug my camera into my computer and transfer the photos. I pick the sharpest image of the geometric wolf, add my small studio watermark in the bottom right corner, and open my social media page. I type a quick caption about clean linework, hit publish, and watch the photo upload to my portfolio page.

I close the laptop, stretch my tired shoulders, and grab my bag from behind the desk. I am about to turn off the last lamp when my phone screen lights up on the counter.

It vibrates once. Then twice.

I pick it up, expecting a notification from my social media page or a text from my landlord. Instead, there is an unknown number on the screen.

I swipe the screen open. The message contains a single attachment. I tap on it, and my stomach drops.

It is an image taken from across the street. The photo shows the outside of my studio, taken only a few minutes ago. I can see myself through the glass window, standing right behind my desk with my phone in my hand.

Directly below the image, a single text message follows:

Delete the photo, or we erase the artist.