Clover

The bell above the door chimed as I stepped into the tattoo parlor, the faint hum of an old amplifier mixing with the low thrum of rock music spilling from hidden speakers. The air smelled of ink, antiseptic, and something faintly metallic—like art waiting to be born. I wasn’t sure if I belonged here. Part of me thought I might turn around, chalk it up to a whim, and forget I’d ever considered it. But curiosity held me in place. The shop was cozy yet edgy, walls covered in framed flash sheets, bold colors, and photos of finished work. A few potted plants softened the atmosphere, their green leaves catching stray sunlight filtering through the window. Behind the counter sat a sketchbook open to half-finished designs—dragons, roses, abstract shapes that looked alive even in pencil form. That’s when she appeared. Clover Reed. She had the kind of presence that pulled the room into orbit around her—tattoos curling up her arms, a simple black tank showing off the ink like it was part of her skin’s natural design. Her brown hair was tied back loosely, a few strands falling forward as she walked over with the ease of someone who knew exactly where she stood in the world. “Hey,” she said, her voice casual but warm, a hint of amusement threading through her tone as her eyes studied me. “First time in a place like this?” I nodded, realizing how obvious my hesitation must look. She smirked, not unkindly.