Chapter 2 #2
I popped a red bear—strawberry, though they all tasted vaguely of sweet chemicals and freedom—and studied the design.
Mrs. Chen's grandson, Private First Class David Chen, killed in Afghanistan four years ago by an IED that shouldn't have been there.
Twenty-two years old. Loved basketball and his grandmother's spring rolls and a girl named Katie who still wore his dog tags.
The portrait stared back at me from the paper.
I'd spent hours getting his eyes right—that particular combination of young pride and old exhaustion that marked soldiers who'd seen too much too soon.
Around his face, poppies bloomed red as blood, red as remembrance.
His unit patch—the Screaming Eagles—worked into the stem design so subtle you'd miss it unless you knew to look.
Another bear. Green this time. Apple? Who knew. Who cared.
Cruz used to count them. Every calorie tracked in his little notebook.
"Sweet things make little girls hyper. We can't have that.
" He'd portion out my food like I was an actual child, not a grown woman playing a role.
Breakfast was oatmeal—plain. Lunch was salad—no dressing.
Dinner was whatever he decided I'd "earned. "
I grabbed a handful of bears just because I could. Cherry, orange, mystery white flavor. Mine.
The Chinese characters for "Until Valhalla" needed work.
Mrs. Chen had written them out for me in her careful hand, explaining how David had fallen in love with Norse mythology during his deployment.
"He said warriors should have choices about their afterlife," she'd told me, tears steady but quiet.
"Chinese heaven or Viking halls. Why not both? "
Why not both, indeed.
I added delicate clouds in the traditional Chinese style, letting them flow naturally into stripes that suggested but didn't scream American flag. Grief had no single nationality. Pride crossed borders. The design held both without making either perform for the other.
Another gummy bear. Purple. Grape supposedly, though it tasted more like purple than fruit.
This was what real care looked like. Not controlling someone's story but honoring it. Not demanding they fit your vision but seeing theirs clearly enough to make it come true. Every tattoo was trust made visible—someone believing you could carry their pain and transform it into something bearable.
David’s eyes held me. That thousand-yard stare I'd seen in the mirror some mornings. The same look that flickered across Tyson's face during his rare visits, gone before most people noticed. Trauma recognized trauma, even when neither party spoke it aloud.
I added final touches—a shadow here, a highlight there.
The poppies needed to look alive even rendered in grayscale.
Memorial tattoos walked a line between mourning and celebration.
Too dark and they became shrines to sadness.
Too light and they dishonored the loss. The balance lived in the details.
8:15 now. The shop would be opening soon, Tanya probably already there doing inventory and singing along to whatever classic rock station she'd found. Time to pack up.
I sealed the design carefully in my portfolio, separate from the wedding sleeve sketches and the random flash art I'd been playing with. Memorial work got its own space, its own reverence. The gummy bears went back in the cabinet—my stash, my rules, my sugar-rushed mornings.
I grabbed my jacket—leather, worn, decorated with patches from shops I'd guested at over the years and some subtle Heavy Kings motifs.
My keys jangled with too many keychains, including a tiny gummy bear Mandy had given me as a joke.
My portfolio case, battered but functional.
My coffee mug needed rinsing but that could wait until tonight.
One last look at the apartment—my chaos, my mess, my life. The guitar case still lurked under the bed, keeping its secrets, a memorial to my old life. Gone but not forgotten.
T he back door of Marked Kings Tattoo opened to familiar scents—green soap sharp enough to strip memories, the metallic tang of fresh ink mixed with blood, and underneath it all, the subtle smell of leather.
"Morning, sunshine!" Tanya's voice carried from the front, followed by the clink of jewelry displays being reorganized. Again. Girl couldn't leave the piercing setup alone for more than two days running. "Coffee's fresh, and we've got three walk-in slots if you're up for it."
"When am I not up for it?" I called back, navigating the narrow hallway lined with flash art and photos of our best work. My portrait of Duke's father, Big Mike, held center position—a memorial piece that had taken twelve hours and most of my emotional reserves.
The main floor opened up, all exposed brick and industrial fixtures that Thor had installed himself, muttering about "proper fucking lighting for proper fucking art." Morning light streamed through the front windows, catching the dust motes that danced no matter how much we cleaned.
My station waited in the back corner—prime real estate with good light and enough privacy that clients could cry without the whole shop watching.
I'd claimed it three years ago and defended it like territory since.
My machines sat in their custom holders, surgical steel gleaming.
Ink caps arranged by frequency of use rather than any color system that made sense to normal people.
Black in the center, then grays, then the colors I reached for most—that particular shade of red that worked for both blood and roses.
Everything exactly where I'd left it Friday night, except—
"Tanya, did you clean my station?"
"Just wiped it down!" She popped her head around the divider, green-streaked hair pulled into space buns that made her look twelve instead of twenty-five. "The health inspector's doing rounds this week."
Right. Health inspector. Not that we needed to worry—I kept my station hospital-clean out of habit and professional pride. But Tanya liked to mother hen the shop.
I settled onto my stool, checking the appointment tablet. My 10 AM had canceled—boyfriend drama, according to the note. Perfect. More time for Mrs. Chen's stencil, making sure every line would transfer clean. Memorial work didn't get rushed.
Behind my ink bottles, barely visible unless you knew where to look, my emergency coloring book peeked out.
Geometric patterns filled with midnight anxiety, colored in careful gradients when my hands needed to be busy but skin wasn't available.
My little secret at work—not hidden exactly, but not advertised either.
The front window gave me a perfect view of Ironridge's morning rush. Construction workers from the new development grabbed coffee at Bean There Done That. Mothers pushed strollers toward the park, probably hoping to tire kids out before the snow hit. Normal morning stuff.
Then, something caught my eye. A skinny guy in a Serpents support hoodie leaned against the lamp post across the street. The Serpents were the Heavy Kings’ biggest rival club. Nasty pieces of work. They didn’t normally hang around the Kings’ territory, especially not wearing their colors so openly.
My hand stilled on the stencil paper. This guy was in support gear, not full colors—so not a patched member.
Wannabe or hang-around, probably. Maybe he didn’t know how much danger he was in right now.
His greasy hair was pulled back in a ponytail that hadn't seen shampoo in days.
Phone out, held at an angle that suggested photos rather than texting.
What the hell was worth photographing? Maybe he was scouting the methadone clinic two blocks north—the Serpents weren't subtle about their pharmaceutical interests
He shifted, phone swinging toward our shop.
No. Probably nothing. Serpents had been pushing at Heavy Kings territory for months, little probes and tests. Taking pictures of businesses, noting schedules. Duke called it "reconnaissance bullshit" and mostly ignored it until they crossed actual lines.
Still, the sight of that support hoodie made my skin crawl. Too many stories from the brothers about Serpents' treatment of women. Too many warnings about their president's particular interests.
"Hey, Tanya?" I kept my voice casual. "You see that guy across the street?"
She peered out, nose wrinkling. "Ew. Yeah, he's been there about twenty minutes. Thought he was waiting for the clinic to open."
Twenty minutes. Before I'd arrived, then.
"Probably is," I agreed, turning back to my stencil. No point in paranoia. This was Heavy Kings territory, the shop under the club’s direct protection. Serpents might probe, but they weren't stupid enough to start shit here. Not in broad daylight. Not this deep in enemy territory.
The back door chimed—electronic beep that meant someone with a key. Not a customer, then. Either Thor checking in, one of the other artists arriving early, or—
"That'll be Mike," Tanya announced. "He texted about touching up that pin-up girl. The one with the questionable anatomy?"
Right. Mike's artistic interpretation of female bodies left something to be desired, but his clients loved him and he paid his booth rent on time. Can't ask for more than that.
I smoothed out the stencil paper, focusing on the work. The Serpents scout could take all the pictures he wanted. Document our schedules, note our habits. Didn't change anything. This was my shop, my station, my work.
A t 9:30, my phone lit up with what could only be described as an emoji explosion. Mandy's contact photo—her making bunny ears behind Thor's head while he scowled—disappeared under a cascade of wedding dress emojis, hearts, and what appeared to be every flower in the emoji keyboard.
Dress shopping this weekend!! You + me + Mia + champagne = YES!! Thor already gave his credit card. Daddy says I can have any dress I want! ??
The word hit like cold water. Daddy.