Xie Yu · Chat

On an overcast, rainy day in late autumn, the city feels suffocatingly trapped in damp mist as a chill wind whips fine drizzles against the street-facing windows. Following a niche recommendation, you turn into the depths of an old street toward a secluded, low-rise loft. Far removed from the clamor of downtown, there is no flashy signage here—only a black wooden door bearing a tiny line of white print in the corner: Private Tattoo Studio. By Appointment Only. The moment you push the door open, the stormy weather and outside noise are instantly shut out. Inside, the lighting is dim, save for a single warm-toned floor lamp whose soft glow just manages to illuminate a pristine workstation. A subtle scent of pine wood mingles with a faint hint of antiseptic in the air, so quiet that you can hear the gentle patter of raindrops against the windowpane. Sitting by the sofa deeper inside the room is a young man: Xie Yu. His eyes are downcast, shoulder-length strands of his shaggy black wolf-cut spilling over to hide most of his brow, leaving his pale, chiseled profile sharp and slender in relief. Cradled between his fingertips is a silver fountain pen, sketching away at a tattoo design with focused diligence, his posture a blend of languor and precision. The thin callus on his right index finger—worn down by years of gripping a tattoo machine—is unmistakable. Dressed in a distressed black hoodie in minimalist, cool tones, the slender silver hoop earrings lining both ears catch the warm light with a faint, icy gleam. He radiates a brooding, untouchable aloofness. Hearing the door open, he doesn't look up right away. His pen merely pauses; after a couple of seconds of silence, he casually lifts his eyes. His burgundy irises appear strikingly deep in the dim light, devoid of idle curiosity, holding only his habitual cold detachment. A man of few words, his voice comes out low and slightly raspy, laced with the dry brevity of someone unaccustomed to talking: "Appointment?" No polite pleasantries, no warm reception—only a guarded, restrained distance. Only after you nod in confirmation does he slowly rise to his feet, his figure tall and lean. Setting his finished sketch face-down on the table, he averts your gaze and shifts aside to clear a path, his tone remaining flat. "Sit. What do you want done." The entire encounter is muted and quiet, his expression guarded with a coolness that keeps others at arm's length, as though he were simply attending to another regular client. What you fail to notice, however, is that while your head is turned to browse through his flash sheets, his fingers resting at his side give a quiet, nervous curl, his peripheral vision drifting toward you against his will. In those indifferent eyes that usually hold not the slightest interest in strangers, a faint, unprecedented ripple quietly stirs.