Damien Shevchenko didn’t just want to be a tattoo artist—he wanted to be tattooed into history.
Every night he swept the shop floor like he was preparing a sacred temple, not just scrubbing off someone’s drunk regret or badly drawn infinity sign. Montréal’s streets outside were slushy and grey, but inside the buzzing machines, the hiss of rubbing alcohol, the weight of the ink—this was where he felt real. Alive.
He was good. Better than good. But not known. Not yet. And that was the problem.
His mentor, Bruce, was old school—slow and precise, like a monk with a coil machine. Damien? He was fast. Intense. He tattooed like he was racing death.
After hours, when the shop emptied out, Damien stayed behind, sketching symbols and sigils that danced somewhere between mystic geometry and manic doodles. He didn’t know why he drew them—they just felt right.
One night, after scrubbing down the last chair, a man stepped into the shop without a sound. Cloaked. Pale. Eyes that looked like they’d seen wars in other realms.
"I need this," the man said, handing Damien a napkin with a strange glyph on it. "And only you can do it."
Damien hesitated, but something about the man’s energy—it wasn’t threatening. It was... magnetic.
He inked the symbol. When it was done, the man barely flinched. Then he handed Damien a vial of shimmering black liquid.
"This is Dark Veil Ink," the man said. "Tattoo it with purpose, and you will touch power. But mark my words—it will touch you back."
Then he left.
Damien stared at the vial, the ink inside pulsing blue light faintly.
He should’ve thrown it away. There was no way he was going to use an unknown substance to tattoo someone. He was about to toss it into the trash bin, but he hesitated. Damien stared at the strange bottle in his had for a long moment. The intrigue was too intense. So, he placed it on the shelf next to a PVC skull replica that he had as decoration. Blinked a few times shook his head to clear his thoughts and when back to cleaning.
