Page 2 of Until the Ink runs Crimson

"Hey, Calla," she says, tugging off her jacket. "Got time to ruin my skin some more?"

I smirk. "Always. Let me guess—another phoenix, or are we branching out today?"

"Thinking a dagger wrapped in vines. Something a little badass, a little poetic. You know—me." She flashes a grin and hops onto the stool, the studio already brighter with her appearance.

I reach for a fresh sketch pad. "You’re running out of real estate, Malissa."

"Then I’ll just start tattooing my regrets on my legs," she jokes.

Malissa hums along with the music, tapping her fingers lightly on the edge of the stool as I sketch. Her offbeat rhythm blends with the buzz of the city outside, an oddly comforting background score. For a small moment, the world is just ink, banter, and soft sound.

Until it isn’t.

A sharp thud. Then shouting. There’s a crash outside the front door, dragging me out of my calm like a rip in still water.

I rise slowly and move toward the sound. Something’s off. The studio’s warmth turns brittle as I move toward the entrance, fingers brushing the edge of the counter for grounding.

"I’ll be back in a minute," I call over my shoulder to Malissa, already moving toward the back.

I grab my old switchblade from the drawer, heart thudding like a war drum, and push open the rear door.

I bolt outside, boots pounding against the concrete as I sprint into the alley. The narrow lane is cloaked in dim light, the scent of rotting garbage and old rain thick in the air. Graffiti stains the brick walls like scars, and a flickering streetlamp buzzes overhead, casting jagged shadows across cracked pavement. Just as I reach the edge, I glimpse a masked figure darting away into the darkness—the back of their head turning briefly before disappearing into the shadows.

My gaze drops.

Oliver. My neighbor. Quiet and reserved, the kind of man who always kept to himself—but somehow, he was always there when I needed something. A silent fixture in the background of my life, dependable in ways most people never are.

Oliver is crumpled beside the dumpster, blood slick on his shirt, one eye swollen shut. His ribs move shallowly—broken. His jaw hangs at an unnatural angle. Beside him, half-buried in dirt and gravel, lies a card—black, with the unmistakable crimson wax seal pressed with a falcon’s crest.

A warning. I’ve seen that symbol somewhere before—etched into memory, lurking in the edges of dreams—but I can’t place where or what it means. And somewhere in the back of my mind, I know—I’ll find out soon enough.

"Oliver!" I rush forward and drop to my knees beside him, gripping his shoulder. "What the hell happened? Who did this to you?"

He groans, lips barely parting.

"Rourke," he gasps, voice ragged and soaked in pain.

"What about Rourke? What does that mean? Talk to me!" I shake him gently, desperation coiling in my throat. "Who did this to you, Oliver?"

His eyes flutter, unfocused, before he slips into unconsciousness.

I drag him into the shadows, checking for a pulse. It’s there—weak, fluttering.

"Calla!" Malissa’s voice is sharp with concern. I turn to see her rushing from the studio, eyes wide the moment she spots Oliver.

"Help me get him inside," I say quickly, trying to lift Oliver’s weight. She doesn’t hesitate—drops beside me and takes some of the burden, slipping her arms beneath his other side.

Together, we maneuver him toward the back entrance.

"What the hell happened?" she asks, her breath ragged as we move.

I shake my head, swallowing hard. "I don’t know," I murmur.

I just know this wasn’t a robbery. There’s no wallet missing.

This was a message. For me.

Once inside, I slam the studio's lock into place, then check every bolt, every window.

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