A few days passed.
Not quietly—nothing in Matteo's life ever did—but steadily, like the city itself moving.
The tattoo parlour smelled the way it always had: disinfectant, ink, and faint traces of cigarette smoke clinging stubbornly to the walls despite his best efforts.
Snow still gathered along the edges of the windows, but inside it was warm, the heater humming low as the machine in his hand buzzed steadily.
Matteo worked alone. Always had.
He preferred it that way—no small talk from coworkers, no one hovering over his shoulder, no one asking questions he didn't feel like answering. Just him, the chair, the needle, and the quiet trust of strangers who let him permanently mark their skin.
Business was… decent. Not amazing, but good enough. Walk-ins and appointments stacked just enough to keep him busy from morning until dusk.
Right now, a guy sat shirtless in the chair, shoulder exposed, jaw clenched as Matteo worked carefully over a black-and-grey design. The machine vibrated in his gloved hand, the sound steady and familiar—grounding.
"You're good," the guy muttered, clearly surprised. "Barely hurts."
Matteo snorted softly.
"you've just got a high pain tolerance."
The guy laughed weakly. "I'll take the compliment."
Matteo focused back on the linework, eyes sharp, movements precise. His hands never shook when he worked. Didn't matter how chaotic his head was—this was the one place everything made sense.
And yet.
His thoughts kept drifting.
Aleksander.
Or rather… the lack of him.
No unknown calls. No messages. No sudden appearances. No men lurking outside the shop. Nothing.
Matteo hated how relieved that made him feel.
Every time the door opened, his spine still stiffened just a fraction, instincts flaring. But it was always just a customer shaking snow from their coat or someone poking their head in to ask about prices.
Good. Normal. Safe.
He told himself that over and over.
Still didn't stop the bitterness from creeping in.
As he wiped excess ink from the guy's shoulder, Matteo's jaw tightened.
That bastard didn't even close the door.
The thought came sharp and mean.
If Aleksander hadn't left the shop wide open like it was nothing—like Matteo's life and livelihood weren't bleeding out on the floor—then the cash register would still be there. Rent wouldn't be looming like a guillotine. He wouldn't be counting bills every night with a knot in his stomach.
End of the month was coming fast.
Too fast.
Ink wiped clean, Matteo leaned back slightly to inspect his work. Solid lines. Clean shading. Perfect.
"All done," he said, voice neutral. "Give it a few minutes before you move too much."
The guy let out a breath like he'd been holding it for hours.
"Man, that's sick. Worth every cent."
Matteo hummed in response, already moving to clean up.
Worth every cent, he thought dryly. Yeah. If only there were more cents to go around.
The rest of the day blurred together.
Another tattoo. Then another. A woman getting a delicate script on her wrist. A guy nervous about his first piece. Small talk, aftercare instructions, the same routine repeated until his shoulders ached and his ass throbbed.
By the time the last customer left, the sky outside had darkened into deep blue. Snow tapped lightly against the glass like fingers.
Matteo locked the door and flipped the sign to CLOSED, exhaling hard.
Silence settled in.
He leaned back against the counter, rolling his neck until it cracked, and that's when his thoughts slid somewhere else entirely.
Gunwoo.
His chest tightened in a way he didn't like.
He still hadn't replied.
Not because he didn't care—God, no—but because every time he picked up his phone, he froze. What the hell was he supposed to say?
Hey hyung, sorry I disappeared. Got kidnapped by a Russian crime boss who wants to dismantle the city and also won't leave me the fuck alone.
Yeah. That would go over great.
And after everything—after seeing the missed calls, the texts filled with worry—shame had wrapped itself around him like barbed wire. Matteo hated worrying Gunwoo. Always had.
Growing up, it had been his job to not be the burden. The stubborn one. The one who could bring peace to his rattled heart.
So he'd told himself he'd call tomorrow.
Then tomorrow became the next day.
And then another.
Now it had been days, and the longer it went on, the heavier it felt.
Matteo dragged a hand down his face, tired bone-deep. He shut off the lights one by one, the shop falling into shadow, and grabbed his jacket.
Just as he reached for the door—
His phone rang.
The sound cut through the silence like a knife.
Matteo froze.
Slowly, he pulled the phone from his pocket.
The screen lit up;
Gunwoo (Hyung)
His breath caught, heart slamming hard against his ribs as the ringing continued, echoing far too loud in the empty shop.
For a second, he just stared.
Then he answered.