November 21, 2020—Tel-Aviv, Israel—The Next Day
When Logan woke up, it took a moment for reality to settle in.
He didn’t even remember falling asleep, yet the crushing weight of the previous night’s events returned to him all at once.
His body felt heavier than it had the night before, as though every ounce of him carried the weight of his unresolved emotions.
Logan hauled himself upright and moved into the sitting area, searching for his phone.
His limbs felt sluggish, his mind clouded, but he sensed energy coursing through his veins.
When he finally found the device, it was nearly dead, its battery hanging on by a thread.
The moment he turned it on, a flood of missed calls, emails, and messages bombarded him, the notifications lighting up the screen like fireworks.
Even as he held the phone in his hand, it buzzed incessantly with incoming calls.
Logan gritted his teeth, fighting the urge to hurl the thing across the room.
Instead, he walked back to the bedroom, pulling his charger from the suitcase.
With the phone plugged in, he grabbed his toiletries from the suitcase and headed to the bathroom.
As the water ran, cold at first and then warm, he scrubbed the exhaustion from his face, brushed his teeth, and stepped into the shower.
The hot water was soothing, but it did little to lighten the burden he carried.
Once he was clean, Logan dressed in a crisp blue button-down shirt and a pair of jeans. He grabbed his wallet and fully charged phone on his way out, determination hardening his resolve.
A plan had been forming in his mind since the early hours of the morning; an idea he couldn’t quite shake.
It was crazy, impulsive even, but it felt right.
The only problem was figuring out how to pull it off in a foreign country where the language was an incomprehensible maze. Luckily, he had Google at his side.
Within an hour, Logan found himself standing in the doorway of a tattoo shop he’d found online.
The reviews were raving about the art of this place, and the website had showcased some incredible designs—a blend of surrealism and bold, intricate detail.
Logan wasn’t one to be easily impressed, but even he had to admit that the portfolio was striking.
A particular design, an ethereal phoenix rising through geometric patterns with the elements of raindrops and rainy clouds around, had been what drew him here in the first place.
It was featured prominently on the website as a signature piece of the artist.
The shop was tucked into a quiet street corner, unassuming from the outside except for the bold, minimalist sign above the door that simply read: “Threads of Ink” and a pride flag hanging next to it.
A small sticker near the door handle advertised that they sold exclusive merch, something Logan had already made a mental note to check out.
He hesitated a moment before stepping inside, the bell’s chime following him into an intimate small shop that felt more like an artist’s studio than a tattoo parlor, with sketches and paintings lining every wall.
Logan felt himself drawn immediately to a wall displaying framed prints of the artist’s work.
The designs were captivating—bold, surreal, and brimming with intricate details that pulled at something deep within him.
He took a step closer to the desk where a display of glossy merch caught his eye.
T-shirts, high-end skateboards with jaw-dropping art, enamel pins, and prints—each piece unmistakably the work of the same artist whose portfolio had led him here.
“Shalom,” said a voice from behind the counter.
Logan turned toward a relatively short man with thick, unruly brown-red hair tucked into the hood of a sweatshirt featuring the shop’s logo.
The geometric designs on the hoodie flowed in a way that made Logan certain it was custom-made.
The man’s neckline was covered with a pattern of ink that climbed just to his jawline, and his bright hazel eyes fixed on Logan with a mixture of curiosity and warmth.
“Eich ani yechul le’ezor lech?” he asked.
Logan blinked, utterly lost. “Uh… English?” he said, almost apologetically.
The man grinned, switching seamlessly. “Sure. Welcome to Threads of Ink, I’m Lucian, how can I help you? Do you have an appointment?”
“Not exactly,” Logan admitted. “But I was hoping you could make an exception. It’s kind of… an emergency.”
Lucian hesitated, his tattooed fingers hovering over the keyboard. His hands were mesmerizing, covered in striking black ink that extended down to his knuckles. “An emergency, huh? Let me see if I can fit you in. What are we talking about here?”
Logan launched into an explanation, detailing the design he wanted, the specific location, and even pulling up some reference photos on his phone. Lucian nodded as he listened, his expression shifting between thoughtfulness and intrigue.
Just then, the back door swung open, and a woman stepped out, speaking in rapid Hebrew to Lucian. She handed him some cash, exchanged a quick laugh, and left the shop with a wave, clearly a customer on her way out. Lucian smiled and called after her before turning back to Logan.
“Good timing,” he said. “Sasha just finished up. Let me see if he can squeeze you in.”
“Sasha?” Logan echoed.
“Yeah, Sasha. He’s the artist,” Lucian explained as he glanced toward the back door.
Before Logan could fully process this, the door opened again, and someone stepped out.
Logan had to do a double-take. The man who emerged was tall, almost like him, with a long curtain of pale blond hair that fell over one side of his face, concealing it.
As he moved closer, Logan caught a glimpse beneath the hair and felt his breath hitch.
Half of the man’s face was covered in burn scars—raised, uneven flesh that twisted across his features, warping the bridge of his nose and rendering one of his eyes a milky white.
The other eye, however, was a piercing, electric blue that seemed to see straight through Logan.
Sasha was wearing a loose sweater, the sleeves pushed up to reveal tattoos crawling up his forearms, bold lines and intricate designs weaving into the burned flesh beneath.
The scars extended past the ink, jagged and uneven, impossible to miss.
Logan found himself staring for a beat too long before quickly averting his gaze.
As Sasha moved, his steps carried a slight limp, a subtle hitch that was noticeable.
And yet, there was nothing hesitant or uncertain about him.
He carried himself with quiet confidence.
Reaching the counter, Sasha stepped beside the man Logan had been speaking to, Lucian, and with an almost absent gesture, leaned in and kissed him tenderly on the cheek.
His arm slid around Lucian’s back as though it belonged there, fitting into place effortlessly. “Hey,” he said, his voice quieter now.
Lucian turned to him with a smile that was warm and familiar.
They stood close, their body language easy and intimate, like two people who had shared a thousand such moments before.
Logan’s gaze flicked down, catching the glint of a wedding band on Sasha’s hand where it rested lightly on the counter.
The sight hit him harder than he expected, an ache tightening in his chest.
He thought of Adrian. Of the empty space where a ring should have been.
The idea should fill him with so much hope, but in truth it left him hollow, a cruel reminder of what he’d lost. Logan blinked, forcing himself to refocus as Sasha turned his attention toward him.
That piercing blue eye fixed on him again, unreadable, waiting.
Lucian gestured toward Logan. “This guy’s got an emergency. Think you can take a look?”
Sasha’s good eye flicked to Logan, cool and assessing. For a moment, there was only silence, and Logan’s heart thudded as he struggled to decipher the man’s expression as he wondered what had happened to him. Then Sasha nodded.
“Let’s hear it,” his voice smooth as silk, a Russian accent tingeing the words, laced with a kindness that stood in stark contrast to his rough exterior.
Logan began explaining his idea, showing Sasha the photo on his phone and weaving the story that tied it all together—the words, the image, the meaning behind it.
Sasha listened intently, his focus sharp as he nodded along, occasionally asking clarifying questions.
He pulled a notepad from behind the counter, his tattooed fingers deftly sketching as Logan spoke.
With each word, the rough lines on the page became something more—Logan’s scattered thoughts transforming into something vivid and alive.
Logan couldn’t understand how Sasha managed it, how he could reach into his mind and pull out exactly what he’d imagined, but there it was.
The sketch was perfect, raw yet precise.
Sasha grabbed a liner pencil and, with the same sure movements, lightly traced the design onto Logan’s arm to give him a sense of placement.
“Like this?” Sasha asked, tilting his head slightly.
Logan nodded, unable to contain the flicker of awe in his voice. “Yeah. That’s it. That’s exactly it.”
After Logan gave his approval, Sasha gestured for him to follow.
They headed into the back room, where the sterile smell of disinfectant mingled with the faint hum of music from a hidden speaker and the air conditioner.
Sasha motioned for Logan to sit in the chair, and as Logan settled in, Sasha set to work preparing his tools—disinfecting the area, slipping on gloves, and methodically organizing the inks.
As Sasha worked, Logan broke the silence. “So… the guy out there, Lucian… you… married?”