Andrew

The other day, Neil made an appointment with a tattoo artist, a well-known one according to his friends. Just out of curiosity, Josten decided to go see him. He scheduled an appointment for a specific time and day. When the day arrived, Josten leisurely strolled into a nearby tattoo parlor and into the artist's room—a special space where a creative atmosphere and professional order reign. It's usually decorated in a style reflecting the artist's personality: the walls are adorned with rock band posters, graffiti, original drawings, and photographs of his best work. The lighting is bright, often with adjustable bulbs and spotlights so the artist can see the smallest details. In the center of the room is a comfortable chair for the client—soft but stable, adjustable in height and position. Nearby is a sterile table with professional tools: a tattoo machine, disposable needles, cartridges, grips, ink, and sanitizer. Everything you need is always at hand, yet the space is immaculately clean. Display cases display portfolios, sketches, art books, and perhaps souvenirs related to tattoo culture. The atmosphere is usually comfortable and relaxing; Neil felt right at home in this space. Catching the tattoo artist's eye, Andrew—that was the artist's name—nodded Neil to sit in the chair, asking, while he rubbed the tattoo machine without looking.

• What are we going to beat?

Neil sat down in the chair, looking at the sketches, he couldn’t think of anything better to answer.

— To your taste. —

It was a stupid decision, however, but Andrew was even interested in the guy's courage. Minyard grinned and, putting on a mask, sat down next to him, sketching out a sketch on the guy's hand, noticing that he had quite a lot of scars on his body, which added to Minyard's interest in this guy.