A year had passed since the Volar incident. Youri had stopped questioning orders. He had stopped thinking about consequences, and he had stopped dreaming. Whenever he wasn't summoned to the Base or called into a briefing chamber, he disappeared into the capital district of Fansilia and drifted down, night after 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 — because the Empire rewarded efficiency, and he had been efficient. So every night, like clockwork, he walked: alone, with a bottle in his 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 and painted the wet pavement in bleeding blues and toxic pinks, music throbbed behind steel doors. Laughter spilled out into the alleyways and died there just as quickly. Youri moved through all of it untouched, and untethered.
He always wore long sleeves — skin-tight uniforms beneath heavier coats, even when the air was warm — because he hated the scars that mapped his body. He hated what they represented and what they reminded him of. Every surgical incision, every burn, every engineered alteration whispered the same truth to him. You are not human. You were made. He avoided mirrors, and he avoided the light whenever he could.
But one night, drunk and directionless, he wandered deeper than usual. An alley swallowed him. The neon faded behind him and gave way to the low hum of failing power lines overhead; trash bins lined the walls, old pipes ran along the brick façades like exposed veins, and the pavement underfoot was cracked and uneven. And then he saw a glow at the end of the alley — faint, and flickering. It came from an old building that looked as though the city had forgotten it decades ago, all chipped concrete and rusted metal railings, with an entrance that wasn't even a proper door, only a narrow hallway sloping down into a basement. Above it hung a single neon sign, half its letters buzzing weakly, though the name was still readable. Cassy's.
Youri stared at it for a moment. A tattoo parlor. He looked down at the bottle in his hand. Without hesitating he hurled it against the brick wall, where it shattered loudly and splashed amber liquid across the concrete. He didn't flinch. Then he stepped into the hallway.
The air inside was warmer, and 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 smell reached him first: ink, antiseptic and something metallic underneath. When he reached the bottom, he was greeted at once by a man leaning casually against a counter near the entrance. He was shirtless, lean and athletic, his frame defined without being bulky and his muscle cut cleanly beneath the warm lighting, with short bleached-blond hair, slightly tousled, its darker roots just visible under the artificial glow. Tattoos covered almost all of him: a massive bird with outstretched wings spanned his upper chest in aggressive, detailed feathers, black webbing stretched along one shoulder, script and illustrated fragments wrapped his forearms, and ink climbed his neck in deliberate strokes. He wore low-slung gray sweatpants and stood relaxed and slightly hunched, like someone who had spent years leaning over clients. He studied Youri without fear. "Are you here for Cassy?"
Youri didn't answer. He had barely registered the sign outside; he had come in without any intention at all, only movement. He simply stood there in silence, his eyes heavy but alert beneath the haze of alcohol, and the man raised an eyebrow slightly.
Before he could speak again, a door on the left side of the room opened, and she stepped out. Long jet-black hair fell in soft layers around her shoulders, with wispy bangs framing her face, and the light caught subtle blue undertones in it. Her makeup was bold but precise, dark eyeliner sharpening her gaze without overwhelming it; a small septum ring rested beneath her nose, and 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 — with intricate florals twining among animals and mythic forms across her neck and chest, and a large, detailed piece stretched over her upper torso where petals, claws and flowing shapes merged seamlessly. Both arms were fully sleeved in botanical and wildlife imagery woven together with striking cohesion. She wore a simple white cropped tank top and fitted blue shorts, plain clothes in sharp contrast with the explosion of ink beneath them.
She looked at Youri once, and paused. Then she came over to him and the blond man at the counter. "Is he here for a session?" she asked calmly.
The man shrugged. "I don't know. I asked. He hasn't said a word."
Her eyes went back to Youri — measured, not intimidated, not impressed, but curious — and she stepped closer. Up close she could see it clearly now: the tension coiled beneath his stillness, and the exhaustion behind his eyes. Not the exhaustion of sleepless nights, but of someone who had burned out something inside himself and kept on walking anyway.
"I'm Cassy," she said evenly, holding out her hand. "I do the work around here."
Youri looked at her hand, then at her face. He didn't take it. The silence stretched while a machine buzzed faintly in another room. Cassy didn't withdraw her hand at once; she watched his expression carefully. There was something off about him — not unstable, and not dangerous. Just hollow.
"You're either missing something," she said at last, slowly lowering her hand, "or you're trying to hide something."
A faint sound escaped him — a chuckle, dry and short. Her eyes sharpened. "Oh," she said, tilting her head to study him more closely. "So you can make expressions."
His gaze didn't break, and she breathed out through her nose. "You're not here by accident. People don't end up down here unless they're looking to change something."
The blond man folded his arms loosely and watched. Youri finally spoke, low and controlled. "I want them gone."
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, and his silence confirmed it. She stepped back a little and gestured toward one of the stations deeper inside the shop. "Show me."