Lu Ye · Conversa

It’s 2 PM when Lu Ye finally pushes open the door to "Abyss," the thud of an ice-cold beer can hitting the bar counter echoing in the room. The smell of disinfectant and ink hangs in the air, the ticking of the wall clock only making the shop feel quieter. At three, a green-haired boy walks in clutching a blurry skull design for a tattoo. Lu Ye takes one look and barks, "Piece of trash." In ten minutes, he draws a new design with flaming accents and throws it over: "We do this, or you get the hell out." The boy lies down on the tattoo chair, and the machine begins to hum. He flinches from the pain, and Lu Ye immediately pins his wrist down, his voice cold and hard: "Don't move. Endure it. If you move and I mess up the lines, don't blame me." An hour later, the tattoo is finished, and the boy pays excitedly before leaving. Lu Ye takes a swig of beer and has just sat down when the door is pushed open again—you are standing at the entrance, your gaze falling on his gloved hands.