"Okay, babe, I'll see you tonight. Busy day sa studio so I'll be home late. Sorry I can't join you guys." Mikha responded to the person on the other end of the line.
"That's okay, babe, I'll miss you but I'll see you later." The person responded, trying to hide the disappointment in their voice but Mikha could still hear it.
Still, Mikha had to prioritise her work for tonight. She was trying to maximise the success of her studio, one night won't hurt.
/
Mikha's brows furrowed in complete concentration, her gloved fingers steady as the tattoo gun hummed in her hand. The fluorescent lights overhead bathed the studio in a sterile glow, casting sharp reflections on the stainless steel trays lined with ink caps and gauze. The air smelled faintly of antiseptic and warm skin, a scent she had long since associated with the quiet rhythm of creation. Beneath the persistent buzz of tattoo machines, murmured conversations wove through the shop—first-timers asking hesitant questions, veterans swapping ink stories, and the occasional burst of laughter from the front desk.
It was a busy weekend, which meant a steady stream of walk-ins—eager, impulsive clients wanting anything from tiny symbols on their wrists to elaborate, spur-of-the-moment designs they'd regret by Monday. But not this one. Mikha was two hours deep into an intricate shoulder sleeve that had taken weeks of consultation and revisions to perfect. She traced the delicate lines with surgical precision, her focus unwavering despite the ache creeping into her lower back. This job was tiring, sure, but it was better than the alternative.
At least here, she was creating something permanent. Not sitting in a tiny studio, trying to scrape by as a 'fine artist' chasing commissions that barely paid rent. The starving artist trope was never her thing, and tattooing—well, tattooing paid in ways a gallery wall never could.
Her client shifted slightly, drawing in a sharp breath as the needle traced closer to a sensitive spot. Mikha glanced up. "You doing okay?" she asked, her voice calm and measured.
"Yeah," the man muttered, his jaw tight. "Just... didn't expect it to sting this much."
Mikha allowed herself a small smile. "You're earning it," she said, dipping the needle into fresh ink. "Good tattoos aren't painless."
And neither was this life, but she wouldn't have it any other way.
/
After the session ended, Mikha wiped the sweat off her brow and rolled her shoulders, flexing the stiffness out of her upper body. Three straight hours of tattooing pushed even her limits, and despite years of practice, she was still human. Her eyes burned from the constant focus, and her hands were starting to cramp—she could definitely use a break. She adjusted her glasses, perched slightly askew on her nose, just as a commotion at the front of the shop caught her attention.
"Uy, Mikhs, halika dito!" Colet's voice rang out, her tone just sharp enough to mean business but not quite urgent. Mikha sighed, already cracking her neck to relieve the tension as she called back.
"What's up, Col?" she asked, feeling the satisfying pop as she stretched.
"I need your help here," Colet replied. No panic, but enough insistence to mean it wasn't something she could brush off. Colet rarely asked for help unless it really mattered.
Curiosity piqued, Mikha dragged herself lazily to the reception area, where she was met by two walk-ins who looked like they'd stepped straight out of wildly different universes.
The first was a petite, copper-haired woman who radiated K-pop fangirl energy—oversized hoodie, bubblegum lipstick, and an infectious bounce in her step. Beside her stood a taller brunette with deep tan skin and delicate features, the kind that reminded Mikha of a modern-day, slightly edgier Mama Mary. Both women wore the eager, slightly nervous expressions Mikha had come to recognize in first-timers.
