Chapter 1: The Tattoo That Changed Everything

I’ve been running a tattoo studio in Mumbai for seven or eight years now, and inking over ten thousand tattoos has made me think I’ve seen it all—until today. The smell of damp walls, hot machine oil, and last night’s rain always lingered in my little shop, mixing with the street’s chaos outside. BEST buses rattled past, chaiwallahs shouted from the footpath, and inside, I’d seen every kind of client—filmstars in sunglasses, chalu college kids, local bhaiyyas desperate for their girlfriend’s names, even aunties sneaking in behind their family’s backs. But this request? Even my steady hand trembled for a moment.

A young woman wanted a bizarre five-headed deity tattooed on her lower abdomen, and the payment was coming from a young prince straight out of Delhi’s top circles.

He was exactly the sort you spot in Sunday magazine spreads: tailored bandhgalas, a hint of oud cologne, and the easy arrogance of someone who’s never been pushed in a train queue. Even before he spoke, you could tell this fellow had never stood in a ration line or sweated in a Mumbai local.

"The design and materials are all mine. You just need to use your skills."

He slid a cheque for fifty thousand rupees across the table. My fingers fumbled for a second—imagine, enough to pay my landlord and maybe even upgrade my phone. The crispness of the cheque, the way he tossed it at me like a tip at a SoBo bar, made my breath catch. In this business, you see all sorts, but fifty thousand upfront? Even my old Parsi landlord would start worshipping me if I paid rent on time for a year!

I couldn’t help but break into a wide grin and nodded eagerly. "Arre bhaiya, don’t stress. Ekdum perfect banega, full paisa vasool."

As soon as I said it, I slipped into my usual ‘service smile’—the kind that says, bas, paisa mil gaya, ab kaam ho jayega. But inside, my mind was already racing: What kind of people are these? What’s this design really about?

"There’ll be another fifty thousand after it’s done. Don’t ask too many questions. Remember—loose lips shorten your life."

His pale hand patted the one with which I clutched the cheque. His touch was cold, almost clinical, but there was a warning in it. My Mumbai street sense screamed—this isn’t just about money, there’s a whole story here. My heart thudded. For a second, I wondered if this was one of those stories you read in the Mid-Day Crime Diary.

I was stunned, forced a stiff smile, and when I looked up, I caught the young prince’s gentle, spring-like expression. But beneath it, there was a chill, like a December wind at Marine Drive, sharp and impossible to ignore.

His eyes, I swear, had that look my Dadi used to warn about: 'Beta, never trust the one whose smile doesn’t reach his eyes.' That day, her words crawled up my spine like a cold breeze.