Seo-Jin Rho || Tattoo artist

(Seoul, 2010 — Si-U tattoo parlour, basement) The city exhaled the morning air — a mixture of exhaust fumes, the smell of steamed buns from street vendors, and the metallic taste of impending rain. Seoul in 2010 thrived in chaos: neon signs flickered against the grey sky, students ran to buses, and the metro hummed like a restless beehive. Seo-Jin Rho stood out in the crowd like a blot on rice paper. His bleached hair, the roots stubbornly remaining dark, reflected the dim light as he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn black hoodie. In the backpack slung over his shoulder were sketchbooks, a half-empty can of energy drink, and a pocket knife he had "borrowed" from his grandmother's kitchen years ago.

He stopped at Café Noir, a cramped establishment sandwiched between a karaoke bar and a 24-hour shop. The barista, a girl with neon pink bangs whom he had once flirted with, served him an espresso without question. "The usual, SJ?" He nodded, dropping coins into the tip jar. An image of the broken coffee machine in the studio popped into his head. "Piece of junk," the owner had grumbled last week, "if you're so smart, fix it yourself." He hadn't.

The stairwell leading to the Si-U tattoo parlour smelled of mould and nicotine. The only flickering light bulb cast long shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. Below, on the salon door, painted matte black and peeling around the edges, hung a handwritten sign: "No regrets (seriously)". Before he could turn the handle, the door swung open. Ye-Eun Kang, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, blocked the doorway. Her scarlet bobbed hair was sharper than her tongue. "Me! Look who finally crawled out of their cave," she growled, tapping her watch with her fingernail. "You missed two buses. Again. Are you allergic to punctuality?"

Seo-jin calmly sipped his espresso. "Good morning to you too, adhesie," he said sarcastically, deliberately using the slang word for "ma'am" that he knew annoyed her. "The roads are a nightmare. Blame the universe, not me."

She snorted, looking at her coffee cup. "And spending money on overpriced coffee water? We have a coffee machine."

"Oh, yes. The coffee machine." He grinned, taking out his phone. "Let me take a photo for Instagram. 'Day 42: still a fossil. Help.' Hashtag #blessed."

Ye-Eun rolled her eyes but stepped aside. Behind her, the studio was revealed—bare brick walls, vintage tattoos in gold frames, and a single dented coffee maker in the corner, its cord hanging down like a dead snake. "Just do something useful," she muttered, though her lips trembled. "The client will be here in 20 minutes. And... comb your hair. You look like an electrocuted chicken."

"Adges' charm never fails," he called after her, sinking into his workstation. As he unpacked his needles, his sleeve rode up, revealing a tattoo of twisted magnolias and thorns. Outside, rain began to drum on the pavement. He glanced at his umbrella, its case leaning against the wall like a silent accomplice.

The espresso burned with a bitter taste on his tongue. Just like every morning. But today, the phone rang in the studio with a request from a new customer. Perhaps a wealthy patron? Or just another student wanting a skull tattoo. Seo-Jin smiled. The pulse of Seoul pounded through the floorboards. The studio's only lamp buzzed like a trapped fly, its light illuminating Seo-Jin's sketchbook. His pencil scratched furiously at the paper — it was a half-finished sketch of a snake coiled around a lotus, its scales turning into broken clock faces. Due in two weeks. The college exhibition loomed over him like a storm cloud. Professor Kim's voice echoed in his head: "A triptych, Ro. Complete. Meaningful. Or you'll be retaking this semester." His stomach growled, reminding him that he had traded lunch for a smoke break.

He had lied to Ye-Eun about the sketches. The pages were filled not with designs for clients, but with desperate attempts to reconcile his street art boldness with the college's obsession with "traditional innovation." Traditional. The word made his jaw clench. His grandmother's hands, calloused from rice fields, flashed through his memory: "Art? What's artistic about starving in the city?" A shadow fell across the table. Ye-Eun leaned against the doorway, her scarlet hair dulled by the dim light. *"Hey. The client cancelled the order. Go home," she said, nodding towards the window, down which streams of rain were running. "It's dead out there." Seo-Jin didn't look up. "I'll stay. I need to... finish something." The pencil trembled in his hand. She paused, folding her arms. "University nonsense?"

"Brilliant nonsense," he muttered, painting the snake's eye too darkly. "The kind that pays off with grades, not victories."

Ye-Eun snorted but didn't press the issue. She tossed her keys on the table, and the sound startled him. "Turn off the lights when you leave. And eat something other than nicotine." The door clicked shut behind her.

Left alone, the studio yawned even wider. Rain drummed on the basement's only window, turning the neon glow of the street into liquid streaks. SJ leaned back in his chair, staring at the broken coffee machine. "A metaphor, I suppose." He couldn't fix it, just as he couldn't call his grandmother this week, just as he... His phone rang. A message from Min-Jae, his classmate: "The gallery spot is confirmed. Better not skip again." Attached was a photo of SJ's poor-quality sketch of a triptych, circled in red marker: "TOO AVANT-GARDE. DEEPER." Deeper where? He had already drawn inspiration from his childhood — from the suffocating silence of the village, from how his father's absence felt like a phantom limb. But the professors wanted elegance, not anger.

He lit a cigarette, and the smouldering ember cast hellish shadows on the walls. The snake in his sketch seemed mocking. "Fine," he muttered, tearing out the page. New idea: a hanbok blossoming into barbed wire, roots bursting from the hem. Traditional. Innovative. It didn't matter.

The shrill ring of the telephone broke the damp silence of the studio. SJ glared at the relic of a landline phone, its cord coiled into a loop. Third ring. He stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed the receiver. "Si-U Tattoo. How can I help you?" His voice was laced with trained cheerfulness, and his lighter flickered as he lit another cigarette.

A rough voice came through the static. *Are you available? Tonight?" SJ glanced at the empty booking calendar — a blank page that mocked his desperate need for money. "What? Openings? When, oh, in an hour..." He sat up straight and opened his notebook to a page covered in scribbles that looked like roses with fangs. "Let me check... We're swamped with work, but... ah! You're in luck. Come in an hour." The lie rolled off his tongue like ink. "Yes, the address... Yes. Yes. Okay. I'll wait." The connection was lost. He hung up, exhaling clouds of smoke towards the ceiling. "Fuck. Fuck. Why did I say that?" His knuckles turned white from gripping the pencil. Clients meant money. Money meant surviving another month in Seoul without returning to the village. But time? Time was a currency he had already spent — on sleepless nights, on unfinished sketches, on avoiding his grandmother's calls.

The walls of the studio seemed to be closing in on him. Rain blurred the basement window, turning the streetlights into fuzzy halos. He looked at the sketch of his triptych — a hanbok unfurling into barbed wire — and wondered if the client would want something equally harsh. Or just another tribal tattoo on their buttock.

---

**Twenty minutes later. **

The clock ticked like a metronome, foreshadowing disaster. SJ paced around the studio, scattering cigarette ash and muttering curses under his breath. Why did I agree to this? The client's voice echoed in his head — rough, low, with a rasp like gravel under leather boots. On the phone, he had been static, distant. But now, in his imagination, he had come closer. Warm. Intimate. "Come in an hour," he said. Idiot.

He ran his hand through his bleached hair, the roots tickling like guilt. The studio smelled of antiseptic and his third cigarette. Rain lashed against the basement window, turning the streetlights into watery ghosts. Pull yourself together. He wasn't the type to get nervous. Clients were clients — bodies to tattoo, wallets to empty. But this voice... It wasn't asking. It was commanding.

"Enough," he hissed aloud, sinking into his chair. The sketch of a drowning phoenix glared at him angrily. Burning and drowning. Pretentious. Or poetic. He couldn't decide. His knee bounced under the table.

---

Five minutes until arrival.

S.J. wiped his palms on his hoodie, staring at the door. What if it's some ajussi with his ex's name tattooed on his neck? Or worse, a gangster. The Seoul underworld loved tattoos, but they loved not paying even more. His stomach churned. Or...

A treacherous thought flashed through his mind. A rich patron. The man's voice was steeped in money. Not the kind of money of the nouveau riche, but the old, quiet kind. The kind that could help him with rent, art supplies, maybe even fix that damn coffee machine.

"Ugh, disgusting," he muttered, slapping himself on the cheek. Since when do you fantasise about strangers' voices? Since it was time to pay the rent, his college portfolio was a complete failure, and 70% of his diet consisted of nicotine. Too bad. He lit another cigarette.

The door creaked open. SJ's heart skipped a beat. He crossed his fingers under the table and closed his eyes. Oh gods of Tamriel...!! Let it be Sugar Daddy, let it be Sugar Daddy...!

... Against the backdrop of the rain, the silhouette of a man in a shiny raincoat appeared...

(Seoul, 2010 — Si-U tattoo parlour, basement) The city exhaled the morning air — a mixture of exhaust fumes, the smell of steamed buns from street vendors, and the metallic taste of impending rain. Seoul in 2010 thrived in chaos: neon signs flickered against the grey sky, students ran to buses, and the metro hummed like a restless beehive. Seo-Jin Rho stood out in the crowd like a blot on rice paper. His bleached hair, the roots stubbornly remaining dark, reflected the dim light as he shoved his hands deeper into the pockets of his worn black hoodie. In the backpack slung over his shoulder were sketchbooks, a half-empty can of energy drink, and a pocket knife he had "borrowed" from his grandmother's kitchen years ago.

He stopped at Café Noir, a cramped establishment sandwiched between a karaoke bar and a 24-hour shop. The barista, a girl with neon pink bangs whom he had once flirted with, served him an espresso without question. "The usual, SJ?" He nodded, dropping coins into the tip jar. An image of the broken coffee machine in the studio popped into his head. "Piece of junk," the owner had grumbled last week, "if you're so smart, fix it yourself." He hadn't.

The stairwell leading to the Si-U tattoo parlour smelled of mould and nicotine. The only flickering light bulb cast long shadows on the graffiti-covered walls. Below, on the salon door, painted matte black and peeling around the edges, hung a handwritten sign: "No regrets (seriously)". Before he could turn the handle, the door swung open. Ye-Eun Kang, arms crossed and eyebrows raised, blocked the doorway. Her scarlet bobbed hair was sharper than her tongue. "Me! Look who finally crawled out of their cave," she growled, tapping her watch with her fingernail. "You missed two buses. Again. Are you allergic to punctuality?"

Seo-jin calmly sipped his espresso. "Good morning to you too, adhesie," he said sarcastically, deliberately using the slang word for "ma'am" that he knew annoyed her. "The roads are a nightmare. Blame the universe, not me."

She snorted, looking at her coffee cup. "And spending money on overpriced coffee water? We have a coffee machine."

"Oh, yes. The coffee machine." He grinned, taking out his phone. "Let me take a photo for Instagram. 'Day 42: still a fossil. Help.' Hashtag #blessed."

Ye-Eun rolled her eyes but stepped aside. Behind her, the studio was revealed—bare brick walls, vintage tattoos in gold frames, and a single dented coffee maker in the corner, its cord hanging down like a dead snake. "Just do something useful," she muttered, though her lips trembled. "The client will be here in 20 minutes. And... comb your hair. You look like an electrocuted chicken."

"Adges' charm never fails," he called after her, sinking into his workstation. As he unpacked his needles, his sleeve rode up, revealing a tattoo of twisted magnolias and thorns. Outside, rain began to drum on the pavement. He glanced at his umbrella, its case leaning against the wall like a silent accomplice.

The espresso burned with a bitter taste on his tongue. Just like every morning. But today, the phone rang in the studio with a request from a new customer. Perhaps a wealthy patron? Or just another student wanting a skull tattoo. Seo-Jin smiled. The pulse of Seoul pounded through the floorboards. The studio's only lamp buzzed like a trapped fly, its light illuminating Seo-Jin's sketchbook. His pencil scratched furiously at the paper — it was a half-finished sketch of a snake coiled around a lotus, its scales turning into broken clock faces. Due in two weeks. The college exhibition loomed over him like a storm cloud. Professor Kim's voice echoed in his head: "A triptych, Ro. Complete. Meaningful. Or you'll be retaking this semester." His stomach growled, reminding him that he had traded lunch for a smoke break.

He had lied to Ye-Eun about the sketches. The pages were filled not with designs for clients, but with desperate attempts to reconcile his street art boldness with the college's obsession with "traditional innovation." Traditional. The word made his jaw clench. His grandmother's hands, calloused from rice fields, flashed through his memory: "Art? What's artistic about starving in the city?" A shadow fell across the table. Ye-Eun leaned against the doorway, her scarlet hair dulled by the dim light. *"Hey. The client cancelled the order. Go home," she said, nodding towards the window, down which streams of rain were running. "It's dead out there." Seo-Jin didn't look up. "I'll stay. I need to... finish something." The pencil trembled in his hand. She paused, folding her arms. "University nonsense?"

"Brilliant nonsense," he muttered, painting the snake's eye too darkly. "The kind that pays off with grades, not victories."

Ye-Eun snorted but didn't press the issue. She tossed her keys on the table, and the sound startled him. "Turn off the lights when you leave. And eat something other than nicotine." The door clicked shut behind her.

Left alone, the studio yawned even wider. Rain drummed on the basement's only window, turning the neon glow of the street into liquid streaks. SJ leaned back in his chair, staring at the broken coffee machine. "A metaphor, I suppose." He couldn't fix it, just as he couldn't call his grandmother this week, just as he... His phone rang. A message from Min-Jae, his classmate: "The gallery spot is confirmed. Better not skip again." Attached was a photo of SJ's poor-quality sketch of a triptych, circled in red marker: "TOO AVANT-GARDE. DEEPER." Deeper where? He had already drawn inspiration from his childhood — from the suffocating silence of the village, from how his father's absence felt like a phantom limb. But the professors wanted elegance, not anger.

He lit a cigarette, and the smouldering ember cast hellish shadows on the walls. The snake in his sketch seemed mocking. "Fine," he muttered, tearing out the page. New idea: a hanbok blossoming into barbed wire, roots bursting from the hem. Traditional. Innovative. It didn't matter.

The shrill ring of the telephone broke the damp silence of the studio. SJ glared at the relic of a landline phone, its cord coiled into a loop. Third ring. He stubbed out his cigarette and grabbed the receiver. "Si-U Tattoo. How can I help you?" His voice was laced with trained cheerfulness, and his lighter flickered as he lit another cigarette.

A rough voice came through the static. *Are you available? Tonight?" SJ glanced at the empty booking calendar — a blank page that mocked his desperate need for money. "What? Openings? When, oh, in an hour..." He sat up straight and opened his notebook to a page covered in scribbles that looked like roses with fangs. "Let me check... We're swamped with work, but... ah! You're in luck. Come in an hour." The lie rolled off his tongue like ink. "Yes, the address... Yes. Yes. Okay. I'll wait." The connection was lost. He hung up, exhaling clouds of smoke towards the ceiling. "Fuck. Fuck. Why did I say that?" His knuckles turned white from gripping the pencil. Clients meant money. Money meant surviving another month in Seoul without returning to the village. But time? Time was a currency he had already spent — on sleepless nights, on unfinished sketches, on avoiding his grandmother's calls.

The walls of the studio seemed to be closing in on him. Rain blurred the basement window, turning the streetlights into fuzzy halos. He looked at the sketch of his triptych — a hanbok unfurling into barbed wire — and wondered if the client would want something equally harsh. Or just another tribal tattoo on their buttock.

Twenty minutes later.

The clock ticked like a metronome, heralding disaster. SJ paced around the studio, scattering cigarette ash and muttering curses under his breath. Why did I agree to this? The client's voice echoed in his head — hoarse, measured, with a smoky undertone that lingered in the air like perfume. It had been muffled on the phone, but now his imagination ran wild. Warm. Commanding. The kind of voice that could order whisky without ice and make it sound like a threat.

He ran his hand through his bleached hair, the roots tickling like guilt. The studio smelled of antiseptic and his third cigarette. Rain lashed against the basement window, turning the streetlights into liquid gold. Pull yourself together. Clients were clients — bodies to tattoo, wallets to empty. But this voice... It wasn't asking. It was hinting.

"Enough," he hissed aloud, sinking into his chair. The sketch of a drowning phoenix glared at him angrily. Burning and drowning. Pretentious. Or poetic. His knee bounced under the table.

---

Five minutes until arrival.

S.J. wiped his palms on his hoodie, staring at the door. What if it's some ajumma asking for a tattoo on her buttocks? Or, even worse, a gangster's girlfriend. His stomach churned. Or...

A treacherous thought flashed through his mind. milf. The woman's voice was full of confidence. Not a sugary agassi voice, but the voice of someone who used her age as a weapon. Someone who could laugh at his bad jokes while swiping her credit card across the table.

"Ugh, disgusting," he muttered, slapping himself on the cheek. Since when did you start fantasising about strangers' voices? Since it was time to pay for his flat, his college portfolio was a complete failure, and 70% of his diet consisted of nicotine. Too bad. He lit another cigarette.

The door creaked as it opened.

SJ's heart skipped a beat. He crossed his fingers under the table and closed his eyes. Oh gods of Tamriel...!! Let it be a milf, let it be a MILF...!

• ...Against the backdrop of the rain, the silhouette of a woman in a shiny raincoat appeared...*