A year had passed since the Volar incident.
He stopped questioning orders. Stopped thinking about consequences. Stopped dreaming. When he wasn't summoned to the Base or called into briefing chambers, he disappeared into Fansilia's capital district, drifting downward each night into the neon-soaked arteries of the city's underbelly.
His record granted him privileges no other pilot possessed. Special clearance. Unrestricted leave between deployments. The Empire rewarded efficiency.
And he had been efficient.
So every night, like clockwork, he walked.
Alone.
Bottle in hand.
The night district welcomed ghosts like him. The air there always smelled faintly of ozone and cheap liquor. Neon signs flickered in broken rhythms, painting the wet pavement in bleeding blues and toxic pinks. Music throbbed behind steel doors. Laughter spilled into alleyways and died just as quickly.
Youri moved through it all untouched.
Untethered.
He wore long sleeves, always. Skin-tight uniforms beneath heavier coats, even when the air was warm. He hated the scars that mapped his body—hated what they represented, what they reminded him of. Every surgical incision, every burn, every engineered alteration whispered the same truth.
You are not human.You were made.
He avoided mirrors. Avoided light when he could.
But one night, drunken and directionless, he wandered deeper than usual.
An alley swallowed him.
The neon faded behind him, replaced by the low hum of failing power lines overhead. Trash bins lined the walls. Old pipes ran along brick facades like exposed veins. The pavement was cracked, uneven.
And then he saw it.
A glow.
Faint. Flickering.
At the end of the alley stood an old building that looked like it had been forgotten by the city decades ago. Its façade was chipped concrete and rusted metal railings. The entrance wasn't even a proper door—just a narrow hallway descending into a basement.
Above it hung a single neon sign.
Half the letters buzzed weakly, but the name was still readable:
Cassy's.
Youri stared at it for a moment.
Tattoo parlor.
He looked down at the bottle in his hand.
Without hesitation, he hurled it against the brick wall. It shattered loudly, amber liquid splashing across concrete.
He didn't flinch.
Then he stepped into the hallway.
The air inside was warmer. The hum of tattoo machines vibrated faintly through the walls. The staircase led down into a basement lit by amber bulbs and industrial lamps. The scent hit him first—ink, antiseptic, and something metallic beneath it.
When he reached the bottom, he was greeted immediately.
A man stood near the entrance area, leaning casually against a counter.
He was shirtless.
Lean. Athletic. His frame defined but not bulky, muscle cut cleanly beneath warm indoor lighting. His hair was short and bleached blond, slightly tousled, darker roots faintly visible beneath the artificial glow.
Tattoos covered him almost entirely.
A massive bird with outstretched wings spanned his upper chest, its feathers detailed and aggressive. Black web patterns stretched along one shoulder. Script and illustrative fragments wrapped his forearms. Ink climbed his neck in deliberate strokes.
He wore low-slung gray sweatpants, waistband visible at his hips. His posture was relaxed, slightly hunched forward, like someone who had spent years leaning over clients.
He studied Youri without fear.
"Are you here for Cassy?" he asked casually.
Youri didn't answer.
He had barely registered the sign outside. He had entered without intention—only movement.
He stood there, silent, eyes heavy but alert beneath the alcohol haze.
The man raised a brow slightly.
Before he could speak again, a door to the left side of the room opened.
She stepped out.
Long jet-black hair fell in soft layers around her shoulders, wispy bangs framing her face. The lighting caught subtle blue undertones in the strands. Her makeup was bold but precise—dark eyeliner sharpening her gaze without overwhelming it.
A small septum ring rested beneath her nose. A nostril piercing caught the light when she turned her head.
Her body was a gallery.
Color saturated her skin—deep emerald greens, burning oranges, rich reds. Intricate floral patterns intertwined with animals and mythic forms across her neck and chest. A large, detailed piece stretched over her upper torso, petals and claws and flowing shapes merging seamlessly.
Both arms were fully sleeved, botanical and wildlife imagery woven together with striking cohesion.
She wore a simple white cropped tank top and fitted blue shorts—clothing that contrasted sharply with the explosion of ink beneath.
She looked at Youri once.
And paused.
Then she approached him and the blond man at the counter.
"Is he here for a session?" she asked calmly.
The man shrugged slightly. "I don't know. I asked. He hasn't said a word."
Her eyes returned to Youri.
Measured.
Not intimidated.
Not impressed.
Curious.
She stepped closer.
Up close, she could see it clearly now—the tension coiled under his stillness. The exhaustion behind his eyes. Not the exhaustion of sleepless nights.
The exhaustion of someone who had burned out something internal and kept walking anyway.
"I'm Cassy," she said evenly. "I do the work around here."
Youri looked at her hand.
Then at her face.
He did not take it.
Silence stretched.
The hum of a machine buzzed faintly in another room.
Cassy didn't withdraw her hand immediately. She watched his expression carefully.
There was something off about him.
Not unstable.
Not dangerous.
Just hollow.
"You're either missing something," she said after a moment, lowering her hand slowly, "or you're trying to hide something."
A faint sound escaped him.
A chuckle.
Dry. Short.
Her eyes sharpened slightly.
"Oh," she tilted her head, studying him more intently, "so you can make expressions."
Youri's gaze didn't break.
Cassy exhaled through her nose.
"You're not here by accident," she said. "People don't end up down here unless they're looking to change something."
The blond man crossed his arms loosely, watching.
Youri finally spoke.
"I want them gone."
His voice was low. Controlled.
Cassy didn't ask what he meant.
She already knew.
Her gaze drifted deliberately to his covered arms.
"Scars," she said quietly.
It wasn't a question.
The silence confirmed it.
She stepped back slightly and gestured toward one of the stations deeper inside the shop.
"Show me," she said.