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ғᴜᴄᴋ ɪᴛ ᴀʟʟ

Rule had been spending more time in the studio lately, more than usual, even for him. Mornings bled into nights in that concrete box of ink, metal, and quiet, but it suited him. Focus kept the noise out. Work kept his hands busy. And with the memorial coming up, he needed both.

He was supposed to have a +1 for it. Some girl he’d struck a straightforward deal with; show up, look the part, keep the sharks from circling him like sharks. Nothing sentimental. Just logistics. But she’d vanished before any of it could happen. No explanation. No message. No apology. Rule didn’t chase people; he didn’t wait for them either. So he let the silence stand and adjusted his plans without blinking.

He’d go alone if he had to. Wouldn’t be the first time he walked into a room meant for “polished” men looking like the trouble they pretended didn’t exist. He knew exactly what eyes would be on him. Which ones expected him to fail. Which ones waited to pick apart his every move. Let them.

In the studio, he moved shit aside, reorganized his inks, set up new designs on the drafting table. His appointment book was stacked. A gallery had reached out about featuring his latest pieces. Ink had called recently too, club matters brewing back home, but Rule wasn’t running back to that world. Not unless he chose to.

He tightened the gloves around his hands, turned on the machine, and the familiar buzz filled the room like a pulse. Unreliable deals, disappearing people, shifting plan... none of it slowed him. Rule had always walked forward alone. And he was damn good at it.