Chapter 1: The Eight-Thousand-Dollar Tattoo

Seven years, ten thousand tattoos, and nothing—nothing—prepared me for what walked in that July afternoon.

The AC rattled in the window, fighting a losing battle against the sticky Savannah heat. The faint buzz of a needle and the metallic tang of disinfectant hung in the air. After all this time, I thought I’d seen it all—from bachelorette party dares at 2 a.m. to Harley riders wanting full-back eagles. But nothing prepared me for the request that walked in that sweltering July afternoon, when the AC was on full blast but still losing the fight to the Savannah humidity.

A young woman wanted a bizarre five-headed deity tattooed on her lower abdomen, and the person footing the bill was a young hotshot from Savannah’s old-money circles.

This wasn’t the first time I’d worked with folks who had more cash than sense, but something about this guy was different—crisp linen shirt, Rolex peeking out, that country club confidence you only see in old-money Savannah boys. His shoes probably cost more than my monthly rent.

"The design and materials are all mine. You just need to do your thing."

He slid a check for eight thousand dollars across the counter.

He didn’t bother with small talk. The check was heavy, crisp, and the signature told me this was no bluff. I glanced at it—Eli Harrison. There was a hush in the room, the kind that settles before something important.

Eight grand for a single session? My rent, my car payment, hell—even my ex-wife’s alimony—all flashed through my mind.

I couldn’t help but grin and nodded quickly. "Don’t worry, I promise I won’t miss a single detail."

A payday like this didn’t come often, and the hunger in my wallet overpowered any weird vibe coming off him. Still, I couldn’t shake the prickle at the back of my neck.

"There’ll be another eight grand when it’s done. Don’t ask too many questions. Just keep your mouth shut, alright? Savannah’s a small town."

His pale hand patted the hand I was using to grip the check.

It was just a tap, but something about it made my skin crawl—a little too intimate, a little too cold. He lingered for half a second longer than necessary. In my line of work, you learn to read the subtext, and the subtext here screamed: Don’t cross this man.

I froze, forcing a stiff smile. When I looked up, I met the young hotshot’s gentle, spring-like expression, but underneath it, I caught a chill—an icy, dangerous intent.

There was something in his eyes, something ancient and predatory hiding behind the well-bred Southern boy charm. I tucked the check into the register and tried to shake it off, but it stuck with me, like the memory of a bad dream you can’t quite forget.