Location: Seraphim Tattoos, The Bronx
Interacting With: Tatiana Carrington
As he started to follow Tatiana into the back of the parlor, Wyatt knew one thing, and one thing only, he didn’t have an ounce of self-preservation in his bones. Any sane man would’ve just said ‘fuck no’ to all this, and got the hell out of dodge before things inevitably went to shit; but right now, he felt like the protagonist of a terrible B-movie, blindly stumbling to his doom with all the grace of an overstimulated gorilla.
Then again, what was life without a little danger, right? Wyatt was pretty sure that if it really came down to it, he’d be able to punch his way out of here, no problem. Not that he’d ever consider socking a lady in the jaw on a normal day, but desperate times called for desperate measures, and he fully expected things to escalate to the realm of ‘desperate’ within the next minute or two.
With an unceremonious thump, he dropped his travelling bag on the ground, and raised a quizzical eyebrow at his surroundings.
“You know, if you wanted to murder me, you probably could’ve picked a better place to do it. I heard it’s a bitch getting bloodstains out of marble.”
Past the curtain, it was like another dimension. Quite unlike the lurid, ash-stained hellhole jangling with heavy metal at the front of the store, this place was immaculate to a near-surgical degree. With all its bright lights, black marble floors, and minimalistic outlines, it would not have looked out of place in a glossy, five-spread for the Architectural Digest.
Where Tatiana sat, the wall behind her was decorated with myriad pieces of art. He wasn’t quite close enough to tell, but the same, flourished signature decorating the corner of each piece was enough for him to realise that they were all the work of the woman before him. Even for someone like Wyatt - whose only exposure to the world of art were the workshops offered in prison - he could safely say that they were real gems, beautiful in the way that everyone could appreciate.
...Or maybe they weren’t. Wyatt felt like he probably wasn’t the best person to judge, but he thought they were nice.
Either way, he knew that he should probably stop gawking, and so, in one smooth movement, he took the proffered seat next to Tatiana, adopting a suitably dour expression. Whatever she was about to say, it looked to be serious, and Wyatt didn’t want to miss even the slightest bit of it.
But what came out of Tatiana’s mouth next - it was definitely not what he’d been expecting. Briefly, his gaze flickered down to the picture shown to him, and in that very moment, he could’ve sworn that every last pint of blood in his body had been replaced with ice, even more so when she confirmed his suspicions with a few choice words.
“...Fuck.”
It was the only thing Wyatt could come up with, and he had to take a few moments to let her words sink in. At this point, he almost wished that Tatiana’s father was the head of the Russian Mafia.
“You’re actually Tatiana Carrington.” He pointed out, lamely, a fact of which she was presumably aware. “Oh God, why didn’t you tell me earlier? I can’t believe you didn’t tell me earlier.”