The rain fell like a curtain over the city, turning the streets into mirrors that reflected the neon lights of the establishments. The late afternoon arrived with that characteristic amber luminosity.

In the Iron Lotus Studio, this transition came to life. The purple and amber lights from the interior pulsed through the foggy windows, creating a beacon for those looking to transform skin into art.

Inside the studio, the atmosphere was one of controlled chaos, a symphony of creativity at multiple frequencies.

Jinx worked at her station to the blaring sound of punk rock leaking from her headphones, her head bobbing to the rhythm while the tattoo machine buzzed in her hands. Her movements were frantic but precise, a maniacal dance that only she could transform into perfect strokes on her client's skin. From time to time, she let out a loud laugh, probably responding to some internal thought that no one else could follow.

Across the spacious area, Neeko had transformed an entire wall into her personal canvas. Crouched in front of the surface, she painted psychedelic shapes that seemed to move even when still: spirals intertwined with impossible creatures, colors that shouldn't match but under her hands created perfect harmony. She hummed softly, something melodic and joyful, completely absorbed in her particular world of shapes and hues.

Samira, for her part, occupied the reception desk with the posture of someone who knew exactly their own worth. Leaning back in the swivel chair, she scrolled through the most recent photos on her cell phone, selecting the best ones to feed the studio's Instagram. Each image was analyzed with a critical eye: the right angle, the perfect light, the composition that would make followers stop scrolling. She paused occasionally to touch up her dark red lipstick or adjust a lock of hair, always impeccable even at the end of a long day.

And then there was Rell.

In the most reserved corner of the studio, she worked in almost reverential silence. The tattoo machine in her hands emitted that constant, hypnotic sound, a needle biting the skin in thousands of tiny pricks per second.

Her eyes, of a metallic amber that seemed to capture and reflect all the ambient light, remained fixed on the work, following every line, every curve, every shadow that was born under her touch.

There was a density to her, a gravitational presence that contrasted with the colorful chaos around her. Where the others were an explosion, Rell was an implosion. All the intensity turned inward, concentrated on a point of absolute focus.

The bell above the door jingled, cutting through the layers of sound in the studio.

Seraphine entered like a gust of spring amidst autumn. The hood of her sweatshirt was slightly damp from the drizzle outside, revealing her shock-pink streaks underneath, and her headphones hung around her neck like a necklace.

She paused just after crossing the threshold, her eyes wide as she scanned the space: the walls covered in art, the flashes of completed tattoos in picture frames, the plants that Neeko insisted on spreading everywhere, the studio's three cats observing her from their elevated perches.

There was a childlike curiosity about her, as if every detail were a discovery. The overlapping voices: Jinx cursing her machine, Neeko talking to her own paintings, Samira on the phone negotiating an appointment, created a cacophony that should have been intimidating, but Seraphine seemed fascinated by it.

— Hi!

Her voice came out louder than intended, compensating for her shyness.

— I came to see if... if there's still time to fit in a small session.

Jinx was the first to react, lifting her head from her work with a wry smile that bordered on the savage. She turned off the machine and spun in her chair, her bright blue eyes fixed on the newcomer.

—Depends…— She drew out the word, clearly enjoying herself. — Do you want a skull, a flower, or unresolved trauma?

Seraphine blinked, processing whether it was a joke or a clinical evaluation.

That's when Rell looked up. And the world seemed to adjust its axis, spinning a few degrees out of the ordinary.

The tattoo artist had seen hundreds of clients, thousands perhaps. Each one brought a story, a reason, a pain or joy to eternalize on their skin. But there was something about Seraphine that made her pause, not just look, but truly see.

The girl was all light, the type of person who seemed to radiate optimism and energy. But Rell, accustomed to reading the subtext written in slumped shoulders and averted gazes, noticed the weight. The fatigue hidden behind the smile, the exhaustion that the external lights couldn't completely erase.

Samira noticed the change in the atmosphere even before looking up. There was a silence in Rell's corner, a different kind than usual. She put her phone aside and assessed the situation with that experienced look of someone who had seen this film before.

—She's with you, Rell.

Samira's voice carried amusement and something more, perhaps protection, perhaps provocation.

— Light hand for a delicate client.

Rell didn't respond verbally, she just nodded and gestured, inviting Seraphine to approach. She was already disinfecting her station, preparing new needles, adjusting the reclining chair.

—

Seraphine settled into the chair with a mixture of nervousness and relief.

Up close, Rell was even more impressive; there was an austere beauty to her, like an iron sculpture someone had the delicacy to polish until it shone. Without the excess of forced smiles or performative energy that Seraphine found almost everywhere she went.

— So…— Rell pulled up a stool and sat beside her, the sketchbook balanced on her lap. — What do you have in mind?

Seraphine explained in broken sentences, her hands gesturing to fill the gaps. Something minimalist, not too big, that represented her first independent tour. Maybe a stylized musical note, or abstract sound waves.

While she spoke, Rell was already beginning to sketch, the pencil dancing on the paper with the same surgical precision as her needle.

— I want to remember who I was before all this.

Seraphine said suddenly, her voice lower, more real.

Rell lifted her eyes from the drawing.

— Before what?

There was a pause. Outside, the rain intensified, drumming drops against the storefront.

— Before the lights blinded me.

It was a strange confession, formulated like poetry.

Rell didn't pressure her, she just returned to drawing, but there was a silent acknowledgment in the air, the understanding of someone who also knew the weight of expectations, of being what others needed you to be.

She presented three design options. Seraphine chose the most delicate one. A sound wave shape that ended in small stars, as if the music transformed into a constellation. Simple, but meaningful.

While Rell prepared Seraphine's skin, applying the stencil to her inner forearm, the singer began to talk. It was a pattern Rell recognized. Nervous people filled silences, as if words were verbal anesthesia.

Seraphine spoke about her songs, about how each one was born from a real feeling but was later dissected, remixed, transformed into a product. She talked about social media, about how every photo, every story, every interaction was calculated by an entire team. About loving to sing but hating to perform, loving to connect but hating to be consumed.

Rell worked while she listened, the needle tracing the lines with millimeter delicacy. She didn't respond much. A nod here, an "I understand" there. But there was genuine listening. There always was. It was perhaps her greatest talent, even more so than the tattoos: the ability to hold the space for others to break down without fear of judgment.

— You don't talk much, do you?

Seraphine observed, more curious than critical.

— I talk enough not to miss the line.

The answer was automatic, but it carried truth.

In Rell's profession, a misplaced word, a second of distraction, could mean a permanent crooked line on someone's skin.

Seraphine laughed. A genuine laugh that illuminated her face in a way no stage light ever could.

— That's poetry!

Rell felt something strange in her chest, a vibration that had nothing to do with the machine in her hands. She didn't reply, focusing on the final stars of the design, but the corners of her mouth curved almost imperceptibly.

When she finished, she cleaned the tattoo with an almost reverential care, applied the healing ointment, and covered it with clear film. Seraphine looked at the result in the mirror Rell offered, her eyes brimming with an emotion she didn't try to name.

— It's perfect.— she whispered. — Exactly what I didn't know I needed.

At the reception, while Samira processed the payment, Seraphine turned to Rell one last time.

— Thank you. For listening, too.

Rell just nodded, but her gaze remained on Seraphine until she disappeared through the door, back into the rain and the city lights.

—-

Night had already fallen completely when Rell opened her apartment door.

The apartment was silent, but there was a light in the kitchen, something rare enough to be notable.

Ambessa was in front of the stove, stirring something in a large pot. She wore an apron over her work clothes, and there was an aroma of spices in the air, something comforting and complex at the same time, like the woman who was cooking.

— How was your day, Rell?

Ambessa's voice was deep, carrying that natural authority that never left her, even in domestic moments.

— Quiet. New client.

Rell left her backpack near the door and approached, peering into the pot. Stew, apparently.

Ambessa turned, her penetrating gaze scanning her daughter's face as if she could read every thought written there. There was a sweetness in those eyes. A deep and undeniable love, but there was also expectation. There always was.

— I want to see the drawing later. I'm always curious about what you create.

It was true. Ambessa kept photos of every significant tattoo Rell did, filed in a physical album as if they were trophies. Maternal pride, but also something more... the constant validation that she had made the right choice in adopting that girl, that the investment had been worthwhile.

Ambessa's phone vibrated on the counter. She wiped her hands on her apron and answered, her face subtly changing when she saw the name on the screen.

"Mel".

The conversation was brief and formal. Mel was fine, work was going as planned, yes, she was eating properly, no, there was no visit scheduled.

Ambessa answered in monosyllables, her body rigid in a way Rell knew well. The posture of someone who loves but does not approve, who extends a hand but maintains emotional distance.

When she hung up, Ambessa returned to the stove without commenting. But Rell had seen the tension, the thinly veiled disappointment.

Mel had chosen her own path, far from her mother's influence, and that was interpreted as rejection.

And Rell, the adopted daughter, carried the implicit burden of compensating for that absence. Of being perfect where Mel was inadequate. Of validating Ambessa's choices where Mel questioned them.

The love was real and deep, but it came with the silent price of eternal gratitude, of the constant need to prove that she deserved to be there.

— Are you staying for dinner?

Ambessa asked, already serving two plates.

— Yes, I am. Thank you for cooking.

They ate in comfortable silence, but Rell felt Ambessa's occasional gaze on her, assessing, measuring, making sure her daughter was okay, was happy, was… enough.

—

Rell locked herself in her room as soon as she could, with the relief of being alone.

She loved Ambessa deeply, but the intensity of that love was sometimes suffocating, like being loved by the sun that warms but also burns.

She turned on her computer, put on her headphones, and opened Spotify without much thought.

She typed "Seraphine" into the search, partly out of curiosity, partly out of something she didn't want to name. The playlist appeared full of songs with a few thousand streams. Better than expected for an indie singer.

She chose one in the middle, "Still Here," and pressed play.

The first chords were soft, ethereal, slowly building. Then Seraphine's voice entered, and Rell involuntarily closed her eyes. It was different from hearing her speak in the studio. Here there was raw vulnerability, emotion that didn't need to be explained in broken words.

The lyrics spoke about permanence despite change, about keeping the core intact while everything around transformed. About still being here, still being real, even when all the mirrors showed distorted reflections.

Rell felt her heart follow the rhythm. Not just the physical beat, but something deeper. A recognition. A resonance.

She opened her eyes and looked out the window. The rain had stopped, leaving the city washed and bright under the night lights.

Somewhere out there, Seraphine was probably returning to her world of spotlights and expectations.

And here, Rell remained in her room, surrounded by her own distorted mirrors, her own daily performances of being the perfect daughter, the disciplined artist, the controlled person.

But at that moment, with that voice filling the space between her thoughts, something shifted. A line was drawn. Not on the skin, but somewhere deeper.

Rell pressed replay on the song.

And again.

And again.

Until she fell asleep with the headphones still in her ears, Seraphine's voice the last thing she heard before the dreams arrived.