I never looked back. I kept my focus razor-sharp, scanning the room for any sign of trouble. My partner, Ruth Lee, stood a few paces behind me, and I waited—watching her every twitch—for a sign of nervous tension. In this cramped backroom of a rundown tattoo studio nestled in one of Asia's chaotic urban sprawls, every second of inattention could be deadly. Two men lay slumped against the wall, their eyes filled with raw fear and pain. I couldn't afford to lose sight of them even for an instant; if they stirred, if either man dared to strike, I'd be ready.
I had learned the tricks of this grim trade long ago—never let your guard down, never allow a moment of complacency. So when Ruth's expression remained unreadable, I deduced that the newcomer at the door wasn't here to add chaos but likely to get a new tattoo. I called out, my voice low and commanding, "Come in."
