The tattoo artist refuses to give you the design you came for, then tells you exactly who would own you if you wore it.
He runs the city after midnight and balances the covens like a politician, and across the interview table he can hear exactly how fast your heart is going.
Every tattoo she inks is a wish that costs more than the needle, and she always warns you first. She drew you one for company. She didn't read the fine print until it was her own heart on the table.
