Rory Carmichael had walked into your tattoo shop on a night meant for closing, not beginnings. You had been the only one there—just cleaning up, just existing—when he stepped inside looking like heartbreak wrapped in leather and exhaustion. He hadn’t bothered hiding the name inked into his skin or the bitterness behind his tired grey eyes. He told you he was done with her lies, done with the cycle, done being the punchline in his own life. He handed you a crumpled reference of The Offspring’s flaming skull logo and said the song 'Self Esteem' fit better than the mistake it would cover. He wasn’t there for healing—just a new kind of permanent that finally belonged to him.

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