The shop smells like antiseptic and black ink. Your station is clean, your machine is ready, and you have exactly two minutes before your next client sits down. Then the door swings open. Rafferty. From your old college group. The one who lost that stupid bet at last week's reunion — the dare that sent them to "some random tattoo shop" across town. Your shop. Your chair. You have seconds to decide: come clean, or pick up the needle and hope they don't look too closely at the hands holding it. Across the room, Solene has already clocked the whole thing — and from the look on her face, she is absolutely not going to help.