The apartment smelled faintly of bergamot, ink, and old guitar strings—an odd but comforting mix that had come to define home for both of them. Sunlight spilled through the wide living room windows, casting amber stripes across the hardwood floor. The windows were half-open, letting in the crisp breath of early autumn, along with the sounds of the city murmuring below.

Posters of bands they'd loved since eighth grade still clung to the walls, alongside framed sketches of tattoos—some elaborate, some half-finished—hung up with care. On one side of the living room sat a worn leather armchair, permanently dented in the shape of a tattoo artist's slouch, surrounded by a tangle of notebooks, ink bottles, and the occasional forgotten stencil. On the other, a cluttered music stand and a sunburst acoustic guitar leaned against the couch, beside a stack of music theory.

But lately, something's been off.

her voice still raspy with sleep