Ace sat cross-legged on her bed, the dim glow of her desk lamp casting long shadows across the sketchbook in her lap. The pages were covered in ink—designs of roses tangled with barbed wire, skeletal hands holding broken hearts, a faceless girl with a shattered halo. Her fingers twitched, itching to turn one of them into reality.
Her phone buzzed.
Jayson:Yo, party at Leon's. You coming or still being emo in your room?
Ace smirked, rolling her eyes. Jayson was chaos wrapped in a leather jacket, always pulling her into things she swore she'd avoid. But she'd been holed up for too long, stuck in her own head.
Ace:Be there in 10. If the music sucks, I'm slashing your tires.
She grabbed her tattoo kit—because where Ace went, her art followed—and headed out.