Chapter Thirty-five
I’m your host, Ewan McManus. Welcome to Tattoo Spectacle.
This is it.
We started with fifty tattoo artists. Fifty egos. Fifty dreams. Fifty people who were absolutely sure this would end differently for them. Weeks later, we’re down to four. Every line, every choice, every mistake has led us here.
Tonight, there are no second chances. No safety nets. No hiding behind tricks or excuses. This is the last tattoo. The biggest canvas. The most pressure any of you have faced so far in this competition.
One of you will walk away with one million dollars and all the glory that comes with it. The other three will walk away with respect and a lifetime of talking about how close you came.
This is tattooing at its most brutal, most beautiful… and most permanent.
This… is the finale.
Let’s see who leaves their mark.
Hale
We enter the convention area for the final time and pause, both of us instinctively taking in the transformation.
The space is almost unrecognizable. Four workstations dominate the center of the room, each surrounded by clusters of cameras angled to catch every movement, every mistake.
Long bleachers line the perimeter, packed tight with a live audience.
There are ten sections at least, each holding around fifty people.
The sheer scale of it all makes my chest buzz with nervous energy.
My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh, betraying what I’m trying to keep locked down.
My mom sits with Aksel’s parents near the front.
She catches my eye and gives me a small wave, her other hand curled anxiously at her throat.
Her nerves are written all over her face, but the sight of her here steadies me more than I expect.
I still don’t really know her, not the way I want to, but I love her anyway, and I’m grateful she came.
“Stop worrying, Fylgja,” Aksel murmurs, leaning close. His breath is warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His hands knead my shoulders, slow and grounding, as we make our way toward our stations. “You’re going to be great.”
Nadine is already waiting, sharp-eyed and brusque as ever. At least her invasive cyclops of a girlfriend isn’t hovering this time. Small mercies. I still can’t stand Cammie.
“Well, finally,” Nadine announces loudly. “The lovebirds have arrived.”
Her voice echoes through the cavernous space as she waves us over with a dismissive flick of her hand, pointing out our placements.
The stations are arranged in a straight line, parallel to the audience, so no one misses a thing.
Aksel is positioned at one end, then Eric, then Layla, and finally me, anchoring the opposite side.
I’m relieved they didn’t put me next to Aksel. I love him, but today can’t be about watching him work. Today is about me. I’m here to win.
I fall into my routine, running through my checklist with near-religious devotion, checking and rechecking every detail until I’m sure nothing has been overlooked.
The lights dim across the room, leaving each station bathed in its own harsh spotlight.
The shift sends a ripple of anticipation through the crowd.
I glance down the line. Everyone looks ready.
Focused.
Eric catches my eye, eyebrows raised as he takes it all in with me. He winks and flashes a thumbs-up.
“Ready to watch me win that million-dollar prize, babes?” he calls, earning a wave of laughter from the audience.
Layla answers before I can. “I’m willing to hire all three of you for the shop I’ll open with the prize money.
” Her smirk is pure confidence, her posture relaxed and self-assured.
She looks every inch an alpha, despite being a beta.
She’s fierce, sharp, and unexpectedly kind.
Somewhere along the way, I’ve grown really fond of her.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Same goes for you when I win, Layla. You’ve got a job with me anytime.”
She nods, accepting the challenge with an easy grace. We all know how close this is going to be. Any one of us could take it.
And somehow, despite that, we all want each other to succeed.
Nadine approaches with five strangers in tow and introduces them as our clients for the day. My assigned guest is a small omega woman, her petite frame already a canvas of piercings and tattoos. She beams at me, eyes flashing a vivid purple with barely contained excitement.
A harpy, then. Adrenaline junkies. Infamous for it. I already like her.
I offer my hand and introduce myself. Her grip is firm, and she squeezes just hard enough to make me wince. The second she opens her mouth, the words come tumbling out in a rush.
She’s watched every episode so far. Loved my work. Knew the moment she saw it that I was the artist she wanted. “Even if you’d been eliminated,” she says breathlessly, still clinging to my hand, “I would’ve followed you to whatever shop you ended up at.”
Her husband is a merman. She wants an underwater scene. She hops in place as she talks, vibrating with energy, and I have to gently reclaim my hand before she dislocates something.
We go over the details she wants incorporated, and once everything is clear, I roll over to the side table and start sketching.
The image comes easily. A harpy skims the surface of the water mid-flight, one foot just barely kissing the waves.
Beneath her, a merman rises toward the light, fingers reaching up to meet her toes through the surface tension.
I add sea life, movement, texture, and details that will bring it all to life on skin.
The schedule runs automatically through my head. One hour to design. Thirty minutes for revisions. Ten and a half hours to tattoo. Every second accounted for.
I cannot fuck this up.
Just under forty-five minutes later, the design is finished. I love being ahead of schedule. I roll my chair over to where my client lounges on a cushioned table and hand her the sketch.
“Tell me what you love, what you like, and what you don’t,” I say. “I want it perfect before I ever put needle to skin.”
She stares at it for half a second before squealing. “Holy shit! That’s perfect.” She pauses, then points. “Could you add a date right here? Our anniversary?”
I make the adjustment, get her final approval, and transfer a loose outline onto her arm. I’m meticulous with placement, angling the figures so both the harpy and the merman are visible from nearly every perspective. The piece is larger than I originally planned.
Too large.
A flicker of unease settles in my gut. I can finish it, but it’s going to be close. Still, the result will be worth it. This piece is going to be beautiful.
After one last check-in, I finally start tattooing. Line work first. Clean. Precise. No room for error.
My client, Sheryl, talks the entire time. Turns out her husband is deployed with the military, and this tattoo is a surprise for when he comes home. The story steadies my hands even as the clock keeps ticking.
When I finish the outline, I wipe her down and send her off for a quick bathroom break. I glance up at the large clock mounted on the wall.
“Shit,” I mutter.
I’m almost two hours behind.
I’d assumed a smaller client would mean faster work.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I wander over to stand between Aksel’s and Eric’s stations, studying their progress. Eric is already more than halfway finished, playing it safe with a greyscale sleeve. Shading and stippling breathe life into a snarling Cerberus. He’ll finish early. No question.
Aksel and I won’t.
Aksel is only halfway through the line work on a Medusa statue piece. The ancient live oak and sweeping Spanish moss he’s adding will bring incredible depth and movement, but it’s ambitious. Maybe too ambitious.
If any of us get eliminated for not finishing on time, it’ll be devastating.
I grab a bottle of water from the refreshments table and head back to my station, rolling my shoulders as I walk. I pass Layla just as she cracks her neck and stands to take her first break, looking loose and confident.
I sit back down and refocus. Sheryl chose vivid blues with sharp pops of orange and yellow, colors that make the sea-green of her husband’s tail glow and set off the pink shimmer of her wings.
I lean into the contrast, shaping something strong but delicate, their love made fierce. It fits her perfectly.
Time blurs.
The host’s voice cuts through the hum of machines and murmuring crowd. “Last thirty minutes, artists!”
My pulse spikes. I wipe sweat from my forehead with my sleeve and scan every line, every stipple, every transition. “You still good?” I ask.
“Yeah,” Sheryl says, smiling easily and flashing her pointed teeth. “Getting tattooed is basically therapy for me.”
I snort. “I just need to finish highlights, then we’re done. Need anything before we hunker down?”
“Nope. Wake me when you’re finished.” She yawns, leans her head back, and falls asleep within seconds.
I stare at her for a beat, then laugh under my breath and get back to work.
The ticking clock becomes background noise. There’s nothing left in the world except skin, ink, and precision. One minute and thirty seconds remain as I finish the final highlight on the harpy’s wing.
Done.
I set my machine down and lean back, rolling my neck until it cracks. Eric’s hand slaps my shoulder, making me jump. Only then do I realize he and Layla are already finished. Seems like they have been for a while.
My gaze snaps to Aksel’s station. He’s still working.
My stomach drops. He’s steady, focused, but there’s no way. He won’t finish in time. He can’t win..
Gods, love makes me so soft. I should be happy I don’t have to fight him for first, but now?
Now I almost feel guilty. Gag.
The countdown booms through the speakers as the crowd rises with it.
Five.
Four.
Three.
Two.
One.
The convention center explodes with sound as Ewan McManus announces the end of the competition in his drill-sergeant bark. Aksel is the only one still holding a machine.
I can’t hear what the host says to him over the roar, but I watch as Aksel steps away from his station with a calm wave to the rest of us. He walks straight to the audience and takes a seat beside his parents. Right next to my mom.
When he catches me staring, he grins and gives me a thumbs-up.
My stomach flips. My face burns as he winks and blows me a kiss.
The cameras move in close, massive screens lighting up with the finished tattoos. “You have five minutes to vote in the Tattoo Spectacle app,” the host announces. “Vote one for Eric’s greyscale Cerberus. Vote two for Layla’s rainbow angel. Vote three for Hale’s sea-meets-air harpy and merman.”
The monologue rolls on, sponsors, guests, filler, but I barely hear it.
Eric’s Cerberus is exactly what you’d expect from him: bold, dramatic, guarding the gates of Hades with snarling intensity.
Layla’s angel is smaller but impossibly detailed, cradling a bundled baby beneath a rainbow, a young family silhouetted below.
It’s beautiful and devastating in equal measures.
All of us gave everything we had today.
The final seconds crawl by, then suddenly it’s time.
Eric, Layla, and I grip each other’s hands as the host announces the results.
“In third place, winning ten thousand dollars in equipment and supplies…” A pause that feels cruel. “Eric Stanton!”
“Damn,” Eric mutters, grinning anyway. “Good luck, babes.”
We hug him hard. He kisses the host’s cheek, because of course he does, before heading off to join Aksel, leaving the poor man visibly flustered as the crowd howls.
“Cute,” Layla whispers.
I smile.
Ewan regains control. “In second place, winning a year with the prestigious Ink-credible team, traveling the world and learning from some of the best artists on Earth…”
Another endless pause. “Layla Eliopoulos!”
My ears ring as the host’s voice shifts, announcing first place. Announcing me. A million dollars. My name. My win. Goosebumps rush up my arms as my ears begin to ring. I feel like I’m in shock. I can’t believe it.
Layla crushes me in a hug as reality finally crashes in.
I half expect them to tell me my name has changed and I didn’t actually win. Noise fades as the shock of my win hits home.
I did it.
Familiar arms wrap around me, strong and solid. Aksel. His cinnamon scent hits me instantly, and I bury my face in his neck as tears spill freely.
Tears of joy that I won. Tears of grief that my dad isn’t alive to see me make it big in life despite his attempts to fuck it up.
Tears of frustration that Aksel didn’t get to finish, so we’ll never know which of us would’ve won had he done so.
Tears of relief that I’ll never have to worry about money again.
Tears of gratitude because my mom is here.
I pull back just enough to look at him. “Gods,” I breathe, wrecked and overwhelmed, “I fucking love you.”
His grin goes soft and stupid, dimple popping. “I fucking love you too, Fylgja.”
He kisses me, deep, messy, and unapologetic, while the crowd roars and the host keeps talking, and for a moment, none of it matters.
It’s just us.
In our perfect little bubble.