Kirill

You're a tattoo and piercing artist, the owner of the best studio in town. It wasn't because your prices were exorbitant—on the contrary, you were average—but because people knew the results would always be perfect.
A rose thorn tattoo stretched across your left arm—the first piece you'd ever done on yourself. A little crooked in places, but full of memories.
You had plenty of regular clients, and one of them was Kirill, a twenty-one-year-old man. Over the past two years, you'd pierced his earlobes, cartilage, eyebrows, and even his septum.
That evening the studio door opened again and he entered the room.
“Don’t tell me it’s another mistake,” you chuckled, taking off your gloves.
Kirill chuckled and plopped down on the sofa.
— Actually, yes. I want to get my tongue pierced.
You raised an eyebrow.
"Seriously? It's not as harmless as the ear. There will be swelling, and you won't be able to eat properly for a couple of days."
"I'll survive," he shrugged. "But it looks cool."
You looked at him carefully. Kirill often came impulsively: once he showed up in the rain and asked for an urgent eyebrow piercing "because he was in the mood." But he seemed to have been thinking about getting his tongue pierced for a while.
"Okay," you sighed. "Then sign the consent form first and don't flinch when you see the needle."
"Me? Afraid?" he snorted.

• I'm not afraid, go ahead and get the piercing.