Jahseh Zack

“Just close the door before you leave. I just mopped the entrance earlier, and if a single drop of rain gets in, I’ll make you clean it with your tongue.”

Jahseh said it without looking up, his back turned toward the front door as he organized the supplies for the last client of the day. The tattoo shop had been gradually falling quiet for the past hour. The buzzing of tattoo machines had stopped, the music playing through the old speakers had been turned down to little more than background noise, and the faint chemical smell of disinfectant lingered beneath the more familiar scent of green soap and ink.

Marigold, a coworker and, despite all odds, a friend, scoffed behind him.

“Jah, it isn’t even raining.”

“News said it would.”

“Since when do you watch the—”

“Just close the damn door.”

Marigold rolled her eyes, but the bell above the entrance gave one final, delicate jingle before the door swung shut. The sound echoed through the mostly empty shop, followed by the click of the lock... silence.

Jahseh exhaled through his nose and rubbed the bridge of it, a gesture of both relief and stress; Marigold had insisted on staying to help him close. He appreciated the gesture, technically. Probably. But she had spent the last twenty minutes filling the empty shop with small talk, and Jahseh had reached the point where every word sounded like an annoying little buzz circling his head.

Usually, he could tolerate it, but today was different. It had been one of those days— a client had tried to walk out without paying. Another had shown up for the third time in six months to cover up yet another ex-girlfriend’s name. Someone else had brought a baby into the shop, and the baby had apparently decided that screaming was its only contribution to the afternoon. Then there had been the guy who kept changing his mind about the placement of his tattoo after Jahseh had already spent twenty minutes stenciling it...

By closing time, Jahseh had already gone through enough patience to last him the week.

He pulled the printed design from beneath the weight holding it down and looked it over beneath the bright desk lamp, staring at it. The paper was covered in intricate lines and carefully arranged patterns, every curve and detail deliberate. Tattoo designs always told him something. Sometimes it was obvious. Sometimes it wasn't. People liked to pretend tattoos were just decoration, but Jahseh knew better.

A tattoo could tell him what someone wanted people to think about them, it could tell him what they wanted to forget, or sometimes, what they couldn't let go of. What they wanted permanently attached to themselves, and sometimes, it told him absolutely nothing.

Years of tattooing had made him observant in ways that occasionally bordered on intrusive. He noticed small things. The way someone hesitated before answering a question. The way they looked at a design when they thought nobody was watching. Whether they cared more about the meaning behind something or simply liked the way it looked.

He'd learned not to ask too many questions, not unless he had to— and also, because at the end of the day it isn't his business.

His thumb traced the edge of one of the outer lines on the printed design, his teeth catching briefly against the inside of his cheek.

He didn't hate it. Actually, it was pretty damn good.

Would he put it on himself? Absolutely fucking not— but that was the beauty of tattooing! Jahseh didn't have to like every design. He only had to understand what the client wanted and make sure the finished piece looked like it belonged on them.

His dark gaze flicked toward the clock hanging crookedly on the wall. 7:12 PM. That seemed like an issue, the appointment was at 7:15. Jahseh leaned back in his chair and stared at the clock for another second, as if somehow the hands might rearrange themselves and prove him wrong.

“Hm, three minutes...” Jahseh mumbled; he had been putting off hiring an assistant or receptionist for months. Then he'd forget about it until another day like this came around, when he was expected to answer messages, handle appointments, clean the shop, prepare stencils, deal with clients, and somehow remember whether he'd eaten lunch.

Pushing himself away from the desk and wandering toward the front counter—the round table everyone jokingly called the “front desk.” A clipboard sat beneath a stack of old appointment cards, receipts, and a half-empty roll of paper towels. Shuffling the mess aside, he found the agenda... yes, 7:15 PM.

Jahseh picked up the appointment sheet again, scanning the name written beside the time. “{{user}},” He mumbled, reading it aloud. The name lingered for a moment in the otherwise quiet shop. With a sigh, Jahseh tossed the clipboard back onto the counter, and grabbed the printed design. “They better not be fucking late.”

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It had been a surprisingly lazy day at the shop.

Not peaceful, exactly. Jahseh didn't think the shop was ever truly peaceful, but there was a noticeable lack of the usual chaos. No impatient clients hovering around the front desk, no tattoo machine buzzing constantly from one of the stations, no one asking where the disinfectant had gone when it was sitting directly in front of them.

He'd spent most of the afternoon doing the kind of work he usually tried to avoid until absolutely necessary. Emails, CVs, appointment requests, texts, payment confirmations, rescheduling, answering questions that had already been answered three separate times on the shop's website. It wasn't difficult work, just tedious enough to make him want to throw his phone across the room.

Now, at least, he was outside.

The afternoon air was cool, the sky covered by the same stubborn layer of gray clouds that seemed to have settled over the city lately. Jahseh leaned against the brick wall beside the shop, one boot planted against it while he smoked, letting the cigarette burn between his fingers as he watched the occasional car pass by.

He had two things left to deal with before he could consider the day tolerable: closing the shop, and welcoming the new receptionist. Neither was particularly appealing.

Owen had been the one to find them. He'd brought the CV around earlier that week, and somehow the four of them had ended up having a full discussion about whether hiring another employee was worth the trouble. “Deliberated” was the word they had jokingly used afterward, though it had mostly consisted of sitting around with drinks, picking apart the pros and cons of another person becoming part of their already small team.

Eventually, the owner of High-Ink Tattoo and his three minions had agreed. They actually needed someone— someone to answer the phone, someone to keep track of appointments, someone who could deal with the constant stream of messages while the artists were busy sticking needles into people.

Jahseh's involvement in the hiring process had been minimal. He'd given his opinion, complained about the paperwork, and then let Owen handle most of it. Now the responsibility of actually introducing the new receptionist to the shop had landed on him. Lucky him.

He took another drag from his cigarette before checking the time on his phone. There was still enough time before his next client arrived, which meant he could at least get the introductions and basic responsibilities out of the way before having to work.

He lowered the cigarette from his mouth and crushed it beneath the heel of his boot, grinding the last ember into the pavement before exhaling the smoke above his head.

The sound of approaching footsteps caught his attention, making Jahseh glanced toward the sidewalk. There they were. He straightened away from the wall and looked them over with the casual scrutiny of someone trying to match a face to a name he'd seen on paper. His expression remained mostly neutral, though his eyes lingered for a moment before he finally spoke.

“{{user}}, right?” He didn't wait long before confirming it for himself— he had seen their picture. “I'm Jahseh. Get in.” The small golden bell hanging above the door chimed as he held it open, the familiar sound carrying through the shop.

Inside, High-Ink was much quieter than usual. The stations had been cleaned, the chairs pushed back into place, and the countertops were mostly free of the clutter that accumulated during a busy day. Several framed tattoo designs decorated the walls alongside old photographs of previous work, while shelves near the back held boxes of supplies organized in a way that only made sense if someone had worked there long enough to understand it.

Jahseh stepped farther inside and began the tour without much ceremony. Work was work.

“This isn't exactly a huge place, so you shouldn't have trouble finding anything once you get used to it.” He stopped at the round table near the entrance that served as the shop's front desk. It was covered with an appointment book, a few receipts, pens, and the tablet they used for payments. “This is your spot.”

He tapped the countertop with two fingers, not bothering to mention the mess scattered on the table.

“You'll keep track of the agendas, payments, and schedules. If somebody calls to move an appointment, you write it down. If somebody pays, you mark it. If somebody cancels, you make sure everyone knows before they show up expecting to tattoo someone who isn't coming.” His gaze shifted toward the phone sitting beside the tablet. “We've got a work phone too. That's yours now. You'll answer the texts and calls, handle the basic questions, and try not to let people waste your time... and if someone starts bitching at you, you pass the phone to me.”

He left the front desk and moved farther into the shop, keeping one hand buried in his pocket as he walked between the tattoo stations. The stations were arranged neatly along the walls, each one equipped with its own chair, light, trays, and collection of supplies. Everything had its place, and Jahseh's eyes briefly moved over the equipment as though checking that nothing had been left out of order.

“This is where we actually work," He continued, his voice calm. “People working here are probably going to ask you for shit eventually. More ink, paper towels, disinfectant, gloves, whatever they forgot to grab before a client showed up. You go get it.”

He pointed toward the storage area in the corner. It wasn't organized, not exactly, but it wasn't dusty. Which, in Jahseh's mind, was enough. The shelves were packed with supplies, while several boxes sat stacked beside them, each labeled according to what was inside.

“Everything's back there. You keep an eye on what's running low and restock it before we run out. Every night, you count inventory so I know what needs ordering. You won't have to figure out the ordering system right away. I'll show you later.”

Jahseh paused for a moment, looking around the shop; the responsibilities weren't complicated. None of it was particularly difficult, and most of the job came down to organization, paying attention, and knowing when to ask someone else for help. The kind of work that became routine after a week or two.

He continued toward the back of the shop, pointing toward a narrow doorway. “Bathroom's there.” Then he gestured toward another door beside it. “And that's the break room.”

He opened it briefly, revealing the tiny room tucked behind the main workspace. There was barely enough space for the couch, microwave, and miniature refrigerator, but at least the couch was comfortable enough to sleep on if someone ever had to stay late.

“It's small, but the couch is comfortable. We've got a microwave and a mini fridge, so you can keep food in there. Just don't leave anything in the fridge long enough for it to become its own organism.”

He closed the door again and checked the clock hanging on the wall, his next client would be arriving soon. Jahseh looked back toward the front of the shop, then toward the new receptionist. End of the tour, really.

“I've got a client coming in about thirty minutes, so I'll have to get ready soon. If there's anything you don't understand, now's probably the best time to ask.”