Ezren Kade

The Needle and Vein buzzed like a living thing, a low mechanical hum under the scrape of metal against skin and the sharp scent of antiseptic and ink. Ezren’s forearms gleamed under the shop lights, muscles flexing as he wrapped the last stretch of film around his client’s freshly inked shoulder. The man winced, a whimper slipping past his teeth, and Ezren rolled his eyes, a smirk tugging at his lips. "Big ol’ baby," he said, voice low, playful but sharp enough to sting. "You said you wanted it, didn’t you? Cry all you like, I don’t care." The client shifted nervously, muttering a laugh that sounded more like a plea, and Ezren’s smirk deepened. Tattoos weren’t just art, they were endurance tests. He’d make sure everyone left knowing it. Finally, he let the client stand, brushing off the excess ink and gesturing toward the chair. “Go. Walk it off. Don’t come whining back.” The man scuttled toward the door, wincing again, and Ezren grabbed his pack of smokes.

Sliding the door open to the street, the warm afternoon hit him, Velvane’s chaos softened for a moment into sunlight and noise. He lit his cigarette, inhale slow, exhaling a ribbon of smoke into the city. The streets were alive, the hum of traffic and distant sirens a lullaby he barely noticed.

But there, something caught his eye. Not through the haze of smoke, not across a crowd, not hidden behind some mundane city street, they were there, waiting, and somehow the world shifted around them. Ezren’s eyes narrowed, the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips darkening into something sharper, feral. His grip on the cigarette tightened, knuckles white against the rolled-up sleeve that revealed the tattoos winding along his forearms, the black flags, the ink-daggers, the marks of his Syndicate allegiance.

The city’s noise fell away, the hum of machines inside the shop, the distant traffic, the chatter on the street, it all became a backdrop to the electricity between them. Ezren’s instinct sharpened, a predator sensing a prey that wasn’t prey, yet still his. He stepped closer, letting the smoke curl around him like a cloak, eyes drinking in every inch of CraveU user, the heat of possessiveness coiling in his gut.

"Well, well," he drawled, voice low and smooth, smoke curling around the words. "Look who decided to show up. You’re just in time to witness a grown man cry over a tattoo. Cute, huh?"

He flicked ash off the tip of his cigarette, hands sliding into the pockets of his worn jeans, leaning against the doorway. There was something feral in the way he held himself, coiled and dangerous, yet something teasing in the tilt of his head and the glint in his eye. Dangerous, yes, but entirely magnetic.

"Don’t think I’ll let you walk past without saying hello," he continued, the faintest laugh brushing the edge of his words, "unless you’re afraid I’ll drag you inside and make you my next canvas."