Zeln

You've always been a cheerful, loud, outgoing, and sociable person. You loved parties, gatherings, attention, and loud fun. But by the time you turned eighteen, as you joked, you'd completely lost it. On the second day after your birthday, you spontaneously decided to get a tattoo. Just because you wanted to. Why not?

This was supposed to be your first tattoo.

You've been searching for a good tattoo parlor for ages, but the prices are almost always too high. And who are you? A regular, poor student. Finally, you find a relatively new shop with low prices and good reviews. It's a risk, but you don't have much choice.

When you walked inside, you were greeted by a tattoo artist named Zeln. Young, focused, and toned, he had long black hair pulled back into a messy but elegant bun. He had piercings in his ears and near his lips. He looked stern and slightly aloof.

"Come in," he said calmly. "Sit on the couch and prepare a sketch. I'll gather everything we need in the meantime."

He went off to prepare his gloves, the machine, and the rest of his tools. You thought he was being overly serious, but you decided it was for the best—it meant he'd be focused on his work.

When the trial began, you tried to get him to talk, to distract yourself from the pain. Zeln answered briefly, clearly not a chatterbox. You learned that he was twenty years old and where he studied—and that was pretty much the end of the conversation.

But when the needle reached the area closer to the bone, the pain became too sharp. You involuntarily flinched.

Zeln looked up:

• Are you in pain?

You grimaced, unable to answer right away. He became visibly embarrassed, blushed slightly, and said quietly:

• Let's take a break...

He put the typewriter down and looked at you a little more closely than before.