Chapter Twenty-five
I’m your host, Ewan McManus. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle.
Tonight is going to be a little different than usual.
We started this competition with fifty artists. Now, only four remain. And for the first time, the people who helped shape them, the ones who believed in them, worried about them, and probably tried to talk them out of this, are here with us.
To the families: welcome. You’ve watched them chase this dream from the outside. This week, you’ll get a front-row seat to the pressure, the stakes, and the reality of what it takes to make it this far.
Be proud, but understand this. From this point on, every decision is magnified, every mistake is permanent, and one of them will leave here with a million dollars… while the other three leave with an expensive therapy bill in their future.
Welcome to the final four. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle.
Hale
Four weeks pass in the blink of an eye. One moment we’re stumbling through awkward introductions and forced proximity, and the next we’re standing on the edge of the finale, exhausted and somehow still standing.
Aksel, Eric, and I have survived four more eliminations, which means the end is finally in sight.
The Saturday before the finale episode is filmed is reserved for the family spot. It’s supposed to be a heartfelt and emotional reunion between the remaining four contestants and their closest friends and family. Of the four beings left, only two actually have family willing to show up for them.
Eric and I both begged Nadine to let us sit this one out. Like, full-on, on our knees, pleaded. We made compelling and logical arguments. When that didn’t work, we made emotional and dramatic ones. She shut us down without blinking.
They’d already flown people out for us, apparently. Unless we wanted to personally cover six round-trip flights to Vegas and hotel accommodations, we were shit out of luck.
When I asked who the fuck they could possibly be flying in for us, Nadine only smiled serenely and said, “Some people from your past wanted to show support.”
That answer sat in my gut like a stone.
We eventually piece it together through frantic group texts with the artists back at our shop in Louisiana. All of them are coming. Every. Single. One. It’s… nice, I guess. Thoughtful, even. The show found a workaround so Eric and I wouldn’t look totally abandoned on national television.
Still, it doesn’t change the truth of it.
There’s no one in my corner. Not really.
Yeah, Aksel’s parents could technically count as mine now, but it’s not the same.
Not even close. I don’t have a lifetime of inside jokes with them.
No shared history or unconditional childhood safety net to fall back on.
They didn’t raise me. His parents supporting me now, as an adult, does magically fill the space where my own parents should be.
Every time I try to talk to Aksel about it, he gets… strange. Not distant exactly, but reserved. He gives me polite, well-rehearsed answers about how excited his parents are, how happy he is that my shop family is coming, and how proud everyone will be of how far we’ve come.
It feels like customer service responses. Safe and neutral.
If I push him on it, he kisses me, and my brain immediately shuts off. What can I say? I’m a simple creature with easily exploited weaknesses.
So here I am, up way too early on a Saturday morning, chugging burnt hotel coffee and preparing myself to be emotionally overwhelmed on camera by the blatantly visible proof that I don’t have a village.
I should be in bed with my husband right now. Warm and barely conscious, or getting railed to within an inch of my life while forgetting the rest of the world exists.
But sadly, that’s not happening today.
Instead, I get to bare my soul for reality TV.
I briefly wonder if, when all of this is over, I can cash in whatever emotional currency I’ve earned for a spa day. Or maybe something more permanent, like a tattoo.
Or a lobotomy.
When we enter the convention area, five separate camera crews are setting up, cables snaking across the concrete floor and lights humming softly as they warm. The space smells faintly of stale coffee and lavender cleaner, a scent I’ve become familiar with over the last several weeks.
Four crews. Four angles. Four different stories being carved out of the same moment.
I’m guessing the two cameras set up next to each other mean Aksel and I will be sitting together. That tracks. It’s smart because if his parents are here being doting and affectionate, it’ll be less obvious that I don’t have anyone of my own to show up for me.
I’ve spoken to his parents a handful of times on video chats. They’re warm in that effortless way, like people who have never had to ration their love. They laugh easily and ask thoughtful questions. They’re the kind of people who remember small details and make you feel seen without even trying.
I feel an old flicker of guilt for all the shit-talking I used to do about them in high school. Turns out I was just bitter.
Barstool-style chairs are arranged in neat rows in front of stark white backdrops. The setup is minimalist and unforgiving. There’s no place to hide, and my nerves spike instantly. My palms go slick, and my legs bounce despite my best efforts to keep still.
It’s ridiculous, really.
I can tattoo someone for hours without breaking a sweat. Blood? Fine. Pain? Manageable. Permanence? That’s
my whole career. You want something etched into your skin forever? I’m your guy. Need me to drive through rush hour traffic in downtown Houston with no less than three near-death experiences? I’m cool as a cucumber.
But put me on a stool under bright lights and ask me to exist on camera? Apparently, that’s where my brain throws up a hard boundary.
I tap out a nervous rhythm against my thigh and force myself to take slow, deep breaths in and out, like that will magically rewire decades of anxiety.
Aksel must notice something is off because his hand finds mine with zero hesitation.
His grip is firm and grounding as he gives my fingers a few reassuring squeezes before sliding his arm around my shoulders.
The relief is immediate and almost embarrassing. I sag into him like my body’s been waiting for permission to relax its stiff hold on me.
How is it possible that we’ve only been together for a little over a month and he’s already this attuned to me? Like he can read the static in my head without me having to say a single word. It’s unfair. He’s literally perfect.
Which is honestly the worst.
Nadine directs everyone to their spots with lazy flicks of her wrist, still seated in her little rolling computer chair like she’s conducting an orchestra she barely tolerates.
Just like I thought, Aksel and I are placed together for family day.
Close enough that our knees brush, and I can steal reassurance by leaning a fraction of an inch to the side.
Once we settle onto the stools, a makeup artist swoops in and dusts powder across our faces. It smells like chemicals and chalk, settling in my pores. I don’t know what it actually does, but they insist it’s crucial for filming so I nod like I understand and let them continue.
Crew members dart around us, adjusting lights, checking sound levels, murmuring into headsets. The energy is busy but controlled, like the calm before an emotional storm.
A few stools away, Eric is already in his element.
He’s perched comfortably on his stool and flirting like his life depends on it.
He’s leaning into the show host’s space, grinning wide and unapologetic, saying something that has the scary man blushing.
The two betas are so wrapped up in whatever magnetic nonsense they’ve got going on that they completely miss Nadine announcing that filming is about to begin.
I knew Eric had been chasing the host for weeks, but I must’ve missed the exact moment when the man finally cracked.
Good for him.
I nudge Aksel with my elbow, just enough to pull his attention where mine is already fixed. His response is an immediate giggle-snort that tells me he sees what I do.
Eric is full-on nuzzling into Mr. Drill Sergeant, pressing himself close like he belongs there. The man, who up until this moment I was convinced had ice water for blood, lets out a breathy and undignified whimper that does not match the barked commands and intimidating scowl he usually wears.
I clamp my lips together to keep from laughing as the tension in my chest loosens a notch.
I shake my head at their antics, the sheer ridiculousness of it all finally cutting through my nerves. Gods. This is fine. Completely fine. There is no reason for me to be spiraling.
I’m just meeting my husband’s parents on national television.
And seeing people I used to work with.
While being filmed from two different angles.
I am totally normal and extremely chill about this.
Mr. Drill Sergeant Man gives Eric one last lingering kiss, leans in to whisper something directly into Eric’s ear, before turning and striding toward the temporary stage set up in front of the convention floor.
Eric freezes.
Then his face goes scarlet, the color bleeding all the way down his neck as he licks his lips with an almost villainous little grin.
I grimace. Time to look away.
At Nadine’s sharp signal, the host snaps into place like he’s been waiting for permission to unleash chaos.
“Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle!” he booms. “I’m your host, Ewan McManus.
His voice carries, loud and commanding, bouncing off the high ceilings of the convention area.
“As most of you have already guessed, today is family day,” he continues. “Each of the five remaining contestants has been away from their family and friends for a total of,” he pauses, glancing at his cue card, “insert number of days here.”
A ripple of laughter moves through the contestants.