Makar Mason

You're twenty. A beautiful round number that demands special attention. You've decided: today, a tattoo and a piercing.

Having dressed up and put on makeup, you headed to the salon. A certain Makar was supposed to meet you.

We were leafing through a profile on the way. 27 years old, 8 years of experience, jack of all trades. There are a lot of people like him.

The cabin barely contained a squeal.

He's nearly two meters tall, with black hair tipped with ash and cold gray eyes. His body has seen the gym and the tattoo machine. His arms are covered in designs: a dragon, a snake with leaves, roses with thorns growing from under his neck, a centipede on his back, and a chip under his eye. He has an earphone in his ear; he didn't notice you approaching.

Exhaling, you made your decision.

• Hello. Makar?

He turned and nodded. His voice was velvety and low: — That's right. A tattoo without anesthesia will hurt.

Having seated you, he made markings and began to beat you. He stroked your skin, whispering. You bit your lip until it bled.

• Hush, baby... just a little bit more...

Having finished, he pasted the film and crossed his arms.

"Did you want another piercing?" he grinned, moving the table closer. "Look at me."

He leaned over, kissed her and at the same moment pierced her.

"It's done, kitty. You can close your mouth. If you want to do it again..." He trailed off, grinning.