You've Come Properly
Zzzzt— Drrrk— Zzrrrk—!
“Hngh…… Urgh……!”
The tattoo needle, laden with ink, danced in and out of Tolstoy Lancaster's skin like a needlepoint artist at work.
Arms are one of the areas with the least pain sensitivity during tattooing. Yet here he was, eyes squeezed shut, letting out occasional faint groans—which only served to remind me once again just how low his pain threshold really was.
“The outline is finished. Now please lie down so we can continue, Your Grace.”
“Hm? Can't we keep going like this, sitting up? I like being able to watch the process.”
“No, we'll proceed lying down.”
“……Fine, whatever.”
When doing a tattoo, you have to control the depth of the needle insertion and keep the skin flat and taut in the treatment area—what pros call tension. But in my opinion, the most crucial element is lighting. You need to stab the ink precisely into the dermis following the design, and when someone like Tolstoy cranes his neck in curiosity and blocks your light, it throws everything off.
Not to mention, at a moment when I need total focus, having a face full of snake heads stealing my attention is a problem too.
“Then we'll resume the procedure.”
I took off my medical gloves and had him lie back on the table. I readjusted the height of the armrest propping up the treatment area, ready to continue—when some utterly absurd words tumbled out of Tolstoy's mouth.
“It's definitely way less painful than the first session. At this rate, we'll finish in no time.”
Says the guy who flinches every time the needle pricks him, pretending to be tough.
Vrrr—
“Please don't move, Your Grace.”
“Grkhhheuph!”
Tattoo shops price their work differently. Generally, it varies by size and design, but overseas shops often charge by the hour—$100 or so. Back when the Beauty Tower first promoted tattoos, we priced them by finger-sized, fist-sized, palm-sized portions too.
Vrrr—Drrrk—Drrrk—Zzrrrk—
“Grkhhheuph……”
But now that things have stabilized, we charge by the hour for tattoos, just like those overseas shops. In other words, every time the inked needle pierces the dermis and Tolstoy lets out a strained scream while writhing around, the longer this drags on, the more money I make.
'Ah, you little wimp. Squirming like a total bitch.'
That said, it's not all profit. My mental damages aren't factored into the fee.
Three hours had passed since we started the actual tattooing, prep excluded. And all we'd done was outline some lines. At this rate, I'd need to bill him for the projected purchases of all the customers he chased away just to break even.
“Grkkheee……”
'This guy's gonna drive me insane.'
I've done countless tattoos by now. But Tolstoy is the only one who's made such a huge fuss over an arm tattoo, of all places.
With no other choice, I spoke up.
“Your Grace, is the woman named Minsia appealing to you simply because of her strength?”
“Not just her strength…… Grkh! No.”
I generally avoid chatting with clients unless it's necessary for the procedure. But Tolstoy twitched at the slightest touch, and talking seemed to reduce his flinching, so I kept engaging him whenever he started to jerk, minimizing the movement.
“Her strength is part of it, but her sword has…… something indescribable. Ngh……”
“Something indescribable?”
“Heh, yeah. Depth. It's got…… depth! Kh! You get it if you talk to her. Especially her philosophy on martial arts—it feels like she's lived decades longer than me! Aaaagh!”
I didn't even need to read his micro-expressions; his voice made it clear his eyes were gleaming with ecstasy.
“That's the weird…… kh! Part too! So many weird things about her.”
“No nodding, Your Grace. Just move your mouth. Any more twitching and the lines will blur.”
“For some reason!! She dresses like…… a man! Ugh! No makeup like other women either. Heh, seeing that makes me think she's like me. Living boldly as she wants! Proving everything with her own strength!! Grkh……”
“……”
Tolstoy's words laid bare just how deeply he felt for Minsia. Not the ecstatic tone from last year when he reunited with Walter Hager after so long, but a voice trembling with affection and longing.
“Heh, sounds a bit odd, but I even like her name, Sia Min.”
“It's not a bad sound.”
Zzrrrk—Drrrk—Zzrrrk—
“Kh…… Sia Min—or Minsia in East Continent style—is the same as the previous head of the Hoblood Clan. And the massive sword on my chest…… or do as East Continent folk call that single-edged blade…… she's the one wielding it too…… Grkhewk!”
“Was that previous head strong too?”
“Heh, more than just strong.”
Tolstoy continued in an excited voice.
“You East Continent folk might already know, but Hoblood Clan means 'tiger's den.' And tigers…… kgh! Don't run in packs. Get what that implies?”
“……Who knows? That the Hoblood Clan head is overwhelmingly strong?”
Tolstoy smirked, pleased with my answer. Though to my ears, it sounded that way; his voice was as clear and pure as his refined features.
“Exactly. Just like us northerners, who prize overwhelming strength above all…… Grkhewk! They're an ultra-closed group, and after Minsia, the previous head, vanished, they got even more insular. But to think a woman like Minsia…… or Sia Min…… was in the Hoblood Clan…… Aaaagh! Why'd that one sting extra?”
“Just your imagination, Your Grace.”
He seemed about to reveal more creepy inner thoughts, so I stabbed deep into the shading area. His sensitivity was off the charts—worse than a pubescent teen.
“The nurse will be up soon to cast a healing spell, so just lie there and rest. I'll prepare the chest design in the meantime.”
“It's…… truly beautiful. All our memories preserved…… I hope Sia Min likes it.”
“……”
I couldn't help shaking my head. I doubted there was a single woman in this world—or my old one—who'd like such creepy behavior.
As Tolstoy grinned at his finished lettering on his arm, snake faces writhing, I contacted Stella via crystal orb to handle his care, grabbed my design tablet, and headed down to the B1 staff lounge.
I figured staring at his face any longer would kill my focus.
Thirty minutes later, I returned with the design for his chest.
“Haha…… Uhahahaha! I love it! If the tattoo turns out like this, she'll be thrilled.”
“We'll see.”
“What…… did you say?”
“I asked if the size, placement, and angle of the design all please you.”
“Hm, sure? Let's get started then.”
Per Tolstoy's request, I applied the design of Minsia's weapon—the do—surrounded by flowers and a warrior to his chest. He checked it in the mirror and grinned in satisfaction.
“As I mentioned before the procedure, the solar plexus is one of the most sensitive areas. It varies by client, but some feel more pain there than on their neck or face. Please prepare your—”
“Amusing talk. I'm Tolstoy Lancaster, Duke of the North. Hurry up. I handled the arm fine.”
“……”
Sure you did.
I'd told him multiple times, before and during, that the arm was one of the least painful spots. Had his reason been devoured by pride? He refused to admit his pathetic pain tolerance.
“We'll start as soon as the stencil dries.”
“I won't yell louder than your voice right now, so relax.”
“Yes, Your Grace.”
Vrrrrr—!
Drrrk—
“Gaaaaaaaah—!!!”
Exactly as expected, the instant I drew the first line across his solar plexus, Tolstoy unleashed a pterodactyl screech.
Of course, I wasn't disappointed. Disappointment requires at least a shred of expectation.
His antics just annoyed me.
“……”
In less than twenty minutes, the urge to record his hypocrisy via crystal orb and broadcast it across the entire Frederik Dungeon Zone hit hard.
But I'm a doctor. Doctors have a duty to protect patient confidentiality.
“Your Grace, when was your last meal?”
General anesthesia seemed necessary. If we wanted to finish today.
Today was Saturday, January 20th. Over half of the first month in the year 563 of the Ailene calendar had already passed.
“'From presbyopia to youthful glow! Those worry lines when you smile! This spring, try a smile lift and laugh freely!' How's that?”
“'Youth starts now! For middlescence more beautiful than flowers!' Or something like this?”
“Hm, both are good? I think……”
And so, from mid-January, I'd been holding full-on spring promo slogan brainstorming sessions with the witches in the first-floor conference room.
Mid-January still meant bone-chilling cold outside the Cash Shop. But smart business means planning ahead: summer for fall, fall for winter, winter for spring.
'Jason's construction is nearly done, medical equipment and drugs sent to the Tower of Truth. Things are off to a smooth start this year?'
The elves who'd been disrupting the half-orcs' logging site were now full-blown heavy smokers. New Year's gifts of e-cigarettes had them trekking to the Beauty Tower morning and night to refill cartridges—heartwarming, really.
“Director?”
“Ah, sorry. I heard everything. Both Rebecca and Hazel's ideas sound good. Maybe blend them for the promo—”
“No, that gem ring! The one the northern duke left.”
“Haha, you've seen it a bunch already, why the…… Huh?”
Last month, northern duke Tolstoy Lancaster got tattoos on both arms and his chest. Left arm: dates of his encounters with his crush, crammed month by month. Right arm: massive lettering of “Sia Min,” a total stranger's name. Chest: not a portrait, but her weapon—a do—wreathed in decorative flowers.
But what surprised me now wasn't my tattoo work. It was the gem he'd given me as partial payment, alongside a fortune in gold. I'd had Kellogg turn it into a ring.
I had zero interest in gems, but I wore this one for its mystical function.
'The color…… it's changing?'
Known as the “Stone of Life,” it glows yellow if anyone within 100 meters harbors hostility toward me, alerting me to danger.
“Everyone, protect the Director!”
“Where's Walter?”
“I'll call him!”
And when it glows red like now? That's when someone with outright murderous intent appears.