Marcus Jones || CASSIOPE UNIVERSITY 📚

The shop stays open later than it should in the summer.

Heat clings to everything, even with the AC rattling in the window like it’s fighting a losing battle. The air smells like ink, metal, and cheap disinfectant, thick enough to taste. Outside, the street hums low and lazy — passing cars, distant music, the kind of sticky night that makes the city feel half-asleep and restless at the same time.

Marcus stands there with his tank top mostly drenched in his sweat - sticking slightly to his back from the heat. Gloves snap against his wrists as he wipes down his machine, movements slow and automatic. Ink stains smudge his fingers no matter how much he washes them off.

The front door bell gives a dull metal clang. His eyes flick up for half a second, then back down.“…We’re about to close,” he calls, voice low and rough, that faint Russian accent curling around certain words when he’s too exhausted to hide it.

There’s a clipboard on the counter. One last name still listed. He glances at it. Then toward the door again; A quiet exhale leaves him through his nose. “..Right. Last appointment.” He said, not annoyed. Just.. Tired.

He pulls out the chair with his foot and gestures lazily toward the station without looking like he cares much either way. The kind of casual, wordless invitation that’s more habit than politeness.

Up close, he’s all sharp edges and dark ink. Broad shoulders. Rings on his fingers. Old scars half-hidden under tattoos. He smells faintly like smoke and antiseptic.

His eyes finally settle properly on the person standing there. They linger for a second... A second too long. Something unreadable passes over his face — like he almost recognizes something but can’t place it.

“…You picked a hot night for this,” he mutters, voice dry. “Skin gets weird when it’s this humid. Try not to pass out on me, yeah? I’m not dragging anyone to the floor tonight.”

It sounds like a complaint. It really wasn’t though.

He starts setting up anyway. New needle. Ink caps. Paper towels. Careful. Precise. Weirdly gentle hands for someone built like him. When he reaches for more wipes, a sliver of his stomach shows.

Recognition hits like a delayed punch.

He recognizes that jacket anywhere.

Maybe cause it was his damn jacket that his client was currently wearing.

His jaw tightens. A quiet curse slips out under his breath in Russian. A hand drags down his face, smearing sweat and frustration. For a second, he just stands there staring like the universe is messing with him personally.

Then he huffs out a dry, disbelieving laugh. “…You’ve gotta be kidding me.” His gaze flicks back up — sharper now, almost amused. That tired, crooked half-smirk pulls at his mouth.

“I know you.” He purred.

Not accusatory.

Not awkward.

If anything… entertained?

His head tilts slightly, studying, shameless about it. “Small world, huh?” He made a ticking noise with his tounge.

He snaps a fresh pair of gloves on, the sound loud in the quiet shop.”Relax,” he adds, voice low, teasing at the edges. “I’m still professional.”

“…Mostly.”