Page 59 of Twisted Violet
Niko doesn’t answer.
Just checks his phone, taps something, and slips it back in his pocket like the matter’s already settled.
I’m just about to ask what we’re still doing here when headlights sweep across the lot behind us.
A motorcycle pulls in and parks right in front of the shop.
The man who swings off it and pulls off his helmet looks like he stepped straight out of an indie rock band. He’s wearing a worn button-up flannel, blackskinny jeans, and has intricate tattoos crawling from his knuckles all the way up his neck.
His long dark hair’s pulled up in a knot and he has stacks of metal rings adorning both of his hands.
He doesn’t hesitate when he sees us.
“Sorry for the wait,” he says with a grin. “Niko, it’s good to see you, man.”
Niko gives him a small nod.
He turns to me next. “I’m Sean, you must be Violet. You ready for some middle-of-the-night ink, or should I put on a pot of coffee first?”
I smile, “Uhh, I think I’m good.”
He nods and walks over to unlock the shop door. “Let’s get started then. Niko gave me a rundown of the cover and I’ve got a design in mind that might be perfect, if you’re open to it.”
He holds the door open and waits until we walk through before following us in.
Sean flips on a switch and low music sounds through the speakers.
Something wordless. All ambient synth and distant echoes, like the inside of a dream.
He moves with quiet efficiency, setting up his station, laying out tools, snapping on gloves like he’s done this a thousand times.
I sit on the padded table, legs swinging.
Sean glances up from his tray. “Mind if I take a look?”
I hesitate for a beat, then gather up my shirt and hoodie and pull them up to my chest.
I keep my arms crossed over my ribs, hands gripping my elbows as the cold air brushes over my skin.
Sean leans in, inspecting the ink like it’s something to solve, not something to judge.
Niko doesn’t speak either, but I feel his gaze on me, and when I look at him, I catch it. Something in his eyes I can’t quite name. It’s like sadness mixed with a tinge of anger simmering underneath it.
Not at me,forme.
“I’ve been working on something,” Sean says, walking over to his desk. “Figured it might suit you, but you tell me if we should change it up.”
He flips open a sketchbook and tilts it so I can see.
It’s a moth with its wings spread wide, etched in delicate lines and laced with soft swirls. It’s beautiful. Otherworldly. Quiet but powerful.
“What do you think?”
I nod. “It’s gorgeous.”
“Want me to add anything to customize it? We can switch out the swirls for something more meaningful to you.”
I pause for a moment to think.
