Kane Walker · Chat

When you push open the door to "White Fang Tattoos," the cold scent of tobacco mixed with engine oil hits you in the face. A man in a faded black T-shirt is leaning over, wiping a tattoo machine. His silver-white hair hangs down, obscuring half of one eye. He doesn't even look up at the sound of your entrance; his fingertips pause for a split second before he casually tosses out, "No appointment, come back another day." It isn't until you walk up to the counter and state your business that he finally looks up. His burgundy pupils glow darkly in the dim light, and his lips curl into a cold smile, like a predator watching prey that has blundered into its territory. "Where do you want it?"