Tanya didn't know how to begin this tattoo. She began all of her custom tattoos by getting to know the person she was giving it to. Normally, she'd do that by talking to them—occasionally, she even did it by talking to a family member of theirs or a friend. It had only happened a couple of times, but both times, she agreed it was clear how well their loved one knew them. The time they seemed unsure, she turned it down.

Ishita was much trickier because she didn't really know herself anymore. Tanya understood how that felt to an extent—Tanya had been sure she wasn't an epic anime sword kinda girl, but the apocalypse had weird ways of making people change opinions like that—like bringing tattoos to life and throwing monsters at you so you had no choice. Even with that understanding, Tanya didn't truly know the pain of losing something like a limb.

She stared down at her hand, flexing and relaxing her fingers until the pencil in her grasp clattered onto the stencil paper.

I can't imagine what it would be like to lose it… She's a seamstress too, if Mrs Eceer is right. Fuck.

Tanya clenched her fist and stared into the middle distance. How could she replace something so irreplaceable? Her hand wasn't just a tool for putting lines onto skin—it was part of her. Once, the buzzing of the machine had rattled her bones until her fingers went numb. Now, that numbness was a comfort. She could feel the squish of skin beneath her gloved fingers, could read the pressure needed in the way their skin stretched tight.

For a moment, she was back in the shop, just days ago, golden light spilling through the windows behind her. Every slight turn dazzled her eyes with flecks of reflected sunlight glinting off the vials of ink on her workstation. Then, just as suddenly, she was back in the present—boards nailed over that same window—staring down at a hand she was trying to imagine living without.

Tanya sighed. What was the right approach here—testing her powers and seeing how close she could get to the real thing or making something completely new? Which would hurt more, the hope that something that felt not quite right would level to be equal to a missing limb, or something you knew with certainty never would but came with new things too?

Suppose that's what the new Power of Intention Boon is for.

Tanya knew she was going to make a few designs and see what stuck, but she only decided at this moment that she'd limit the number she was allowed to make to 3. If she explored every single idea she had, not only would it take too long, but it would also break the first rule her mentor had taught her: don't give someone too many options.

The memory played in her mind as she warmed up, sketching hands until they became less rigid. Each iteration moved further from exactness and closer to something that felt alive.

It had been the end of her first week, and after days of grunt work—scrubbing ink-stained sinks, sweeping up curls of discarded transfer paper, and disinfecting chairs until they gleamed under the fluorescents—Gabriel Laurent had finally given her and the other apprentices a real task.

The woman was Faith Abrahams, Laurent's ex-wife. Tanya remembered the name vividly, not just because of how Faith insisted on pronouncing it—"Aber-hams," her rolled R so clipped and pristine it sounded as if she were biting down on it—but because Faith had been such an insufferable presence that the apprentices had taken to calling her 'Doubt' whenever Laurent's back was turned.

Laurent was obviously using this tattoo as a ploy to win her back, and he was treating it as seriously as if he were tattooing the Pope. Faith had drifted into the shop multiple times over Tanya's first week, and from the apprentices' muttered gripes, it seemed she had haunted the place even before that. She'd shot down every proposed design with a flick of her wrist and a sigh poised on the edge of theatrical, murmuring, "This is my first tattoo ever, so it must represent me wholly."

She'd repeated it so many times that the apprentices had started mouthing the words behind her back, a silent chorus of mockery that turned into stifled snickers whenever she left the room.

Tanya had been in the middle of triple disinfecting the needles—just in case, by some divine act, Faith finally settled on one of Laurent's designs—when she heard it.

"What about that other one, the strange one?" Faith asked, her voice dripping with the kind of intrigue that was just as likely to end in a sneer as in genuine curiosity.

"Well, she's new…" Laurent started but then pivoted swiftly, smoothing his tone into something more flattering. "But very talented, yes, yes. Maybe some fresh eyes are exactly what you need."

"Hm. I want all of them."

"You—huh?" Laurent blinked.

"Fresh eyes, yes. I want fresh eyes. Have them design for me."

"Of course, of course," Laurent said, nodding so fervently that Tanya wondered if he'd give himself whiplash. "They will take the rest of the day off to do it."

Tanya had been peeking around the corner by then, watching Faith's perfectly coiled ginger locks bounce with each imperious tilt of her head. She tossed her hair a lot, a performative motion, as though she had rehearsed it in a mirror. After a while, it became impossible not to see her as a bobblehead—one with a sharp tongue, expensive perfume, and an ever-present smirk that dared you to impress her.

Laurent had turned and beckoned her in. The others were already there, most standing by the side with perfect posture and another couple doing various organisation or cleaning tasks.

Tanya had literally run home, staying up until the crack of dawn. Her design ideas rivalled her portfolio—every idea that she could think of and a bunch of mindmaps and breakdowns of what she'd overheard Faith asking for, to boot.

Tanya had run home, her breath coming in quick, uneven bursts. The moment she crashed through the door, she yanked out her sketchbook and spread out her pencils.

She had no idea what Faith would want—so she decided to draw everything.

A delicate script piece? Done. A full-back mandala? Sketched. A fine-line floral sleeve? Outlined. Maybe something avant-garde, abstract? She filled a page with twisting lines and negative space. What if Faith liked something dark and gothic? She drafted intricate ravens, skeletal hands, and a dagger piercing a heart, each shaded with obsessive detail. Time blurred—her hand cramped, but she ignored it. Hours slipped by unnoticed, the room dimming from golden afternoon to a soft, flickering blue as her lamp cast long shadows across her desk.

By the time morning light streamed through the window, she had a full portfolio—pages upon pages of designs that could cater to any whim, any inkling of desire Faith might express. A masterpiece of options.

She barely stopped to breathe as she gathered them all and raced back to the shop, heart hammering with exhilaration.

Laurent was already there, waiting. The moment he saw the stack of pages in her hands, his lips pressed into a firm, disapproving line.

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"You did all of these?" he asked, flipping through them at lightning speed, barely pausing before moving to the next.

"Yes," Tanya said, still catching her breath. "I wanted to make sure she had something she loved."

Laurent let out a slow exhale and shook his head. "First rule," he muttered, closing the folder and tapping it against his palm, "don't give the client too many options. If you overwhelm them, they'll reject you just to avoid having to decide."

Her stomach dropped.

He shoved the portfolio back into her hands and turned toward the front of the shop.

"Next."

Tanya stood frozen, her fingers gripping the edges of the pages that had stolen her night.

Moments later, Faith had strolled in, her bobblehead motion in full effect, oblivious to the weight of Tanya's silent defeat. Laurent ushered her to his desk, where a carefully curated set of designs—none of which were Tanya's—were laid out before her.

She noticed he'd followed his own rule, even when she'd asked for every apprentice. There were 5 on the table before her, and Tanya knew from glancing over that he'd only agreed to this to lead her towards the best design on the table—his own.

She pulled herself back to the present. The page before her was filled with hands.

She had no intention of using the selection to lead Ishita to a specific one, but she did want to give Ishita the right number of choices so that she could work out what she wanted. Finding the right range between them was the most important part of that feat.

It had been too easy for her to slip into that same panicked state she'd had as an apprentice—yes, this wasn't just a normal tattoo, but she couldn't let herself lose it in all the what-ifs and pressure of importance. All tattoos were permanent, she needed to treat this like a normal one.

Well, sorta.

The irony of opening Ishita's Interface after making that claim wasn't lost on her, but it felt like a good place to start. Who did The System think that Ishita Sharma was.

* * *

Information

Name: Ishita Priya Sharma

Number: 146,567,398

Class: Martyr

Level: 2

Attributes

Strength: 3/9

Dexterity: 8/16

Vitality: 2/10

Concentration: 3/7

Will: 4/13

Abilities

Pain Transference (3) Sacrificial Rebirth (1)

Achievements

Worthy, A Mother's Love.

* * *

She began by taking the Interface at face value.

How could I best craft somethin' for this Class?

She sketched as she pondered, sweeping huge circles onto the page—guidelines for the design. Twisted but beautiful, it embodied the idea of loss as an inherent part of love. She gave the hand slender fingers, their sharp nails becoming more claw-like with each iteration. As she shaded them black—much like Assistant's had—she had a new idea. She let the nails vanish entirely, replaced by a black ombre that bled from the claw tips down to the second knuckle.

The intention revealed itself bit by bit. At first, she thought of it simply as Martyr, the class itself. Then, she tried rewording it to reflect her own future decisions. But that felt too vague. She rewrote it again and again, refining the thought until she arrived at something clear and final:

1. Synergises well with her class and build.

She considered adding more, but now that she understood how minimising an intention could sharpen its focus, this felt perfect. She wanted flawless synergy.

With the core concept set, she experimented with different point lengths. The longest was stunning—otherworldly. She imagined it catching the light, shimmering slightly, as if accepting the ink that had brought it to life. Fahad's design had proven they didn't need an ink texture like the snake had.

She paused, hand hovering over the paper, midway through sketching the hand gripping a sewing needle.

That snake hadn't looked like anything since.

With a sigh, she pulled up her interface, scrolling for a few futile moments before remembering—God, this interface was awful. She dismissed it.

Closing her eyes, she summoned her sharpest memory of it: the moment the world had frozen, and she had watched it slither past the brothers toward her face. It had shimmered like ink, shifting between a slick, liquid form and something textured—scales and rough patches flickering in and out of existence. Its eye stood out the most. She could picture every sweep of her tattoo gun, even the way the light it emitted seemed to get trapped between her lines.

She needed more data to be sure, but she suspected it was tied to her power level, like she was trying to refine something she had barely been capable of creating in the first place.

I suppose that tracks with Assistant too. I made it when my stats were buffed, and it mentioned something about how it had to shove the extra Vitality into a mana core 'cause my Tattoo Summoner level was too low.

She still wasn't sure if avoiding realism had any benefits. Would Fahad's summon develop slower because of the detail? Had making it look like rendered metal drained more vitality than a simpler version would have? Only time would tell.

Tanya leaned back in, letting her hand move freely. The designs were growing wilder, more exaggerated. Bigger, too. She craved the looseness of it, the way her hand could just fly across the page. Despite her love for the huge, wolverine-like claws, her final design had them shorter, more cat-like. 'Martyr' didn't feel like a flashy class to her. It was a twisted healer, not a frontliner. The details in the end versions became even more extreme—longer fingers, less precision. Something about it reminded her of Tim Burton's work. It would fit her new gray skin, her hollowed-out eyes.

That thought made her wince. It still didn't look right. She didn't know if she'd always feel this way about cosmetic changes or if it was just this one—knowing Ishita hadn't chosen it left a sour taste in her mouth.

Exhaling, she shoved the sketches aside and started on the next design.

This design took her straight back to her GCSE fine art days. Normally, she'd take a reference photo, but she didn't want to use her phone for this if she could help it. If Ishita chose this version, she'd model it after Ishita's own hand—but for now, she could just hold out her own.

The intentions were obvious, forming in her mind before she'd even finished blocking in the shapes:

1. Dexterity and strength equal to the rest of her body.

2. Sensation and pain befitting a real hand.

3. Growth—both in aesthetics and function—until it was indistinguishable from the real thing.

With the basic hand shape down, she focused on the texture. Every tiny dimple on her knuckles, the small freckle beneath her thumb—she took her time, bringing the image to life. It filled the entire A4 sheet, and unlike her last design, she found herself digging through her workbench for an eraser, using it often. Sometimes, she even erased whole sections just to redraw them, chasing a slightly better angle, a touch more accuracy.

She'd let Ishita choose—her old, warm brown skin or this new undead-sepia gray. For now, the sketch stayed in black and white.

She lingered over the details, making tiny tweaks, but nothing major. Eventually, she forced herself to step away.

Both designs captured Ishita in different ways. Now, she needed to find a third angle.

Tanya picked up a fresh page, tapping her pencil against her lip. She needed something different—something that captured another side of Ishita.

Glass had been everywhere that day. Toppled photographs, broken ceramics. But even with the mess, Tanya had thought the flat was beautiful. Warm, rich with color. Everything felt lived-in, layered with stories. She had smelled spices—cardamom hanging in the kitchen, its scent mingling with other spices she couldn't name. The lanterns in the hallway had been placed with purpose, reflecting off the mirrors opposite them. She imagined that on a normal day, they'd all be on and create an illusion of endless light. Ishita's home wasn't just homely—it was intentional.

Tanya let her hand move, sketching the first sweeping outline of the new design. This one felt softer, more graceful. It wasn't about utility or realism—it was about beauty, comfort, and familiarity. The fingers were shorter, full, the palm open, inviting. She let the wrist taper delicately, giving it a weightlessness, an almost ethereal quality, as if the hand could float.

As she worked, an image surfaced—one she had barely glanced at in Ishita's flat. A wedding photo, one of many pictures in the hall. Ishita was dressed in red and gold, her arms adorned with dark mandalas of henna from finger to shoulder. Tanya wished she had looked closer, studied the intricate details, but for now, she focused on capturing the feeling of it. Ishita would know the designs better than she ever could.

Starting at the fingertips, Tanya let the patterns curl and bloom—vines wrapping around the knuckles, delicate paisleys nestled between. The palm held a mandala, its lines radiating outward. She could almost see it in color—deep, rich brown against warm skin, shimmering as if still drying.

1. The hand's abilities help both the Wielder and others

2. Linear growth from weak to strong—no catches.

She imagined how it might manifest. Would the ink glow faintly, shifting with movement? Would the patterns deepen over time, gaining strength like something alive?

Leaning back, she studied the design, then reached for the other two.

The still image of her own hand, the scribbled sheet of claws in dynamic poses, and now, the front-and-back study of a hand inspired by Ishita's home.

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