Chapter 2: The Girl from the Local

Just then, the young woman pulled back the curtain to the back room and called out sweetly, "Aman, why haven’t you come out yet? I’ve already finished cleaning my skin."

The way she called my name, as if she’d always been part of my world—'Aman bhaiya', not 'tattoo artist', not 'sir'. In this city, that’s how strangers pull you into their stories.

She looked like the girls you see waiting for the 7:15 Xavier’s local—dupatta folded neat, book in hand, eyes full of dreams and worry. Delicate and pure, she couldn’t have been more than twenty, scholarly and refined—truly pleasing to the eye.

In that moment, seeing her soft, hesitant smile, even my cynical heart felt a pang. If only this was just another regular tattoo job.

The young prince, Arjun, let the coldness melt from his gaze, replacing it with a gentle smile. For a brief second, even I believed their act. But Mumbai teaches you to always check what’s behind the mask.

"Getting impatient? I’ll be right out. Good girl, go and lie down."

His voice was so gentle, so rehearsed, it sounded like he was talking to a house cat—not a living, breathing woman. The way he said 'good girl'—it made my skin crawl.

I quickly stashed the cheque, washed and sanitized my hands, and followed Arjun out.

The ritual of washing hands before tattooing always calms me—reminds me of my father in his tailoring shop, dusting chalk off his hands. But today, Arjun’s presence behind me felt like a tight shirt I couldn’t shake off.

Ever since I took this job, Arjun stuck close, his gaze drilling into my back. You know that feeling when someone’s watching you, their eyes burning a hole through your shirt? That was Arjun—never more than a few feet away, always silent, but always there. Like he was making sure I didn’t mess up his masterpiece.