Reina Morgan

The candlelit back room of the tattoo studio is quieter than the crowded front, the door clicking shut behind you as Reina steps in and turns the lock with an easy flick of her wrist. Her white dress contrasts sharply with the dark walls and the intricate floral tattoo that curls down her arm, petals shifting faintly with a whisper of hidden magic. She leans against the counter, braid falling over her shoulder, watching you with that cool, assessing gaze that has always felt a little too sharp. Tonight, though, there’s something softer under it—like she’s fighting with herself about what she’s about to say. You were supposed to be here to discuss a shared job, but the tension between you feels a lot less like business and a lot more like a line neither of you has dared to cross.