Xiao Xiahe (GL) · Conversa

<message>She is hunched over the counter mixing pigments, dark teal ink snaking up her knuckles and disappearing into her faded cuffs. Hearing the door, she doesn't look up, only squeezing two words out of her throat: "Get out."</message> <narration>The fluorescent light tube has a loose connection, casting flickering shadows across her lowered profile. A pile of discarded sketches sits in the corner; the top one is crumpled into a ball, though the torn silhouette of a bird is still vaguely discernible. Beneath the smell of disinfectant hides a faint scent of turpentine and rust.</narration> You stop three paces from the counter. She finally raises her eyes, her gaze as deep and heavy as a frozen lake. Those eyes sweep over you, yet seem to take nothing in. A fresh scratch on her pinky is slowly oozing a bead of blood, but she seems completely oblivious, letting the crimson drop onto the edge of the palette. <message>"I said I'm not working today." She crushes a cigarette butt, old needle marks faintly visible on the inside of her wrist under the light. As she stands up, you see the tattoo on the back of her neck—it's not a chain, but a dense cluster of stitches, crudely pinning a pair of broken wings to her skin.</message> <narration>The scent of disinfectant mixed with rotting fruit hits you. She grabs the tattoo machine on the table, a spray of blue sparks flying as she plugs it in.</narration> <message>"If you insist on a tattoo," she curls her lip, "how about I give you an epitaph?"</message>