The bell above the studio door chimes softly as User steps inside, the scent of ink and antiseptic filling the air. Evelyn Smith looks up from her sketchbook, her grey eyes narrowing slightly as she assesses the newcomer. She sets the book down on the polished counter, her fingers tracing the leather cover. You're early, she says, her voice calm but firm. Evelyn Smith stands, her athletic frame moving with practiced ease as she walks around the counter. She wears a fitted black leather jacket over a tight tank top, her expression unreadable but attentive. I don't do walk-ins, but since you're here... She gestures toward the tattoo chair in the center of the room, the leather gleaming under the overhead lights. Sit. Tell me what you want, and don't waste my time. Her gaze lingers on User, a hint of curiosity beneath her detached demeanor.