✄- - One Sylvain Rosengard had started the day by rolling off his couch and banging his head on the coffee table. Groggy and unhappy that he'd had such a rude awakening, he'd muttered a string of curse words under his breath and then crawled on all fours to his room, where he had promptly curled up into the fetal position on the carpet next to his bed. It was a little chilly, but at least the carpet was soft and warm under his skin.

Ten minutes later, the Italian's alarm rang, and he groaned but got up nonetheless. Couldn't exactly be late to work, especially not when it was his turn to open shop.

Things had been routine from there. He'd forced himself on his feet and staggered into the bathroom to make himself presentable. After that he'd almost gutted himself on the corner of his wardrobe drawers, but that was a fairly normal part of his mornings. Not particularly caring of what he wore, the blond had pulled whatever his hands first landed on, which fortunately, ended up being a clean black shirt with some broken English (from his days in Asia) on it and a ragged pair of blue jeans.

From there, he'd managed to drag himself to the kitchen and get the coffee machine to work. Slumping into a cheap wooden dining chair, he closed his eyes and sighed into clasped hands, soaking in the gurgling of Mr. Coffee.

The pot he made didn't taste strong enough. That usually said something about how the rest of his day was going to be, but he ignored the premonition in favor of grabbing his bag and keys and rushing out the door. A firm believer of eco-friendliness, he biked to his workplace, stopping to buy sushi and a bag of chips along the way. Lunch and breakfast, respectively.

By the time he reached Seventh Hour, it was already nearly nine. Shop would officially be open in another half hour or so. Quietly unlocking the door and rolling his bike in (couldn't just leave something as nice as an old bike out in the open in the Crescent Moon District), he made his way to the counter, stowing his vehicle in the back storeroom.

More routine: clocking in, unlocking the register, making sure everything was where it was, wolfing down breakfast, flipping the closed sign to show the shop was open.

Since it was rather early in the morning, Sylvain definitely did not expect any customers to come walking in. In fact, most only showed up after noon had rolled by, and of course, there were even more around twilight. With nothing to do, he sat behind the counter and dug his sketchbook and pencil pouch out of his sling bag to just doodle, coming up with new possible tattoo designs and just stuff he liked. He even drew feet at one point, almost lovingly outlining the curve of the arch and heel.

Slowly, an hour ticked by. It was around this time that the Italian started to get a nagging feeling in his chest. Feeling uneasy, his doodles started gaining a theme of something dark. Shadowy looking monsters began to cover his pages, and when he ran out of ideas, he drew monsters from games he was familiar with.

Another half an hour slowly trickled past, and would have continued on it's quiet meander had the bell on the shop door not have tinkled, signaling the arrival of a potential customer. Immediately, the blond sat up a little straighter, looking up from his art to check the newcomer out.

Oh whoa. Not good. The woman who'd entered was all but glaring daggers as she surveyed the little shop, flashing steel blue eyes sweeping from side to side. Dark hair and large almond-shaped eyes marked her as someone of Asian descent, and if the tattooer had to guess, he'd have said Korean. Not that he should be judging anyway. Thankfully though, the woman began to speak, dragging him from his thoughts as she stated her business. The surprisingly frosty tone of her voice was enough to set off alarm bells in the blond's head, and he almost winced at their sharpness.

Well, best not fight ice with ice. "I'm sorry," he began politely, voice pleasant, "but I'm afraid Mr. Callaghan is not in at the moment. If you have any business with him, you're welcome to leave a note or come visit again." Hopefully he wasn't just adding fuel to the fire. The nagging in his chest said differently though, so he sighed and just hoped for the best.

✄- - In situations like these, Sylvain's go-to reaction was, unfortunately, to smile. In a way, it was almost like a habit, one that he'd developed during his high school life. Smile and things will turn out okay, one way or another; that was the rule he used to live by. Sadly enough, it seemed he couldn't simply just break that rule like it was nothing. It was his source of comfort (read: misery) during the time he had been most tortured, and one simply didn't forget something like that.

Though it was easy to ignore the woman's scowling face, it was hard not to feel wary when she stuck her hand into her coat pocket and began to shift, almost nervously. In the blond's case, his own eyes grew more calculating, narrowing a fraction to take on a colder appearance than the friendly squint it'd been in before. Likewise, his smile did the same, and though it still remained mostly harmless, it now held a hard edge to it.

It was highly possible the woman had a weapon, perhaps a firearm or taser, stored in her pocket. Now, it was highly pretentious of him to even assume she was a threat (not that he was insulting the strength she may or may not have), but the man simply couldn't help himself. The tattoo studio was an integral part of his life, and because it was located in a particularly dangerous part of the island, everyone who appeared even remotely hostile towards it was treated with suspicion.

If this woman held a grudge against his boss, then the Italian wasn't exactly going to to welcome her with open arms. Not until she proved that she wouldn't bring harm to the shop or the people who worked there, at least.

"As you wish, Miss," Sylvain replied agreeably, though this time, his tone was curt. "If I may, I ask that you please keep your hands to yourself as a safety precaution; the tools used in this room may be dangerous. Would you like a stool to sit on as you wait?" That's right, all he had to do was smile and be polite. If he could, he'd try to stick to being neutral. Yes, neutral was good, no provoking anyone, no bringing attention to yourself. He'd already done that once, and as it turned out to be a great mistake on his part, he wasn't about to do it again.

As for the woman's question... Was it normal for strangers to just casually ask you how long you'd worked someplace? At this point, Sylvain wasn't quite certain, though that was probably just because of how on guard he was at the moment. Though it was just his paranoia, he wondered, briefly, why the woman had to act so...coy. The extra appendages, which marked her a virgin, only amplified the behavior, though there was also the possibility that they could be fake. He'd heard a rumor somewhere that it was possible for people to buy a convincing set of fake cat appendages, and the woman's behavior made it hard for him to keep his hackles from raising.

"Oh... A few months, give or take," he answered with a shrug, purposely keeping his answer vague. Her question made him feel like she was almost measuring him up, and it only made him more cautious in his actions. Then came the counterattack. "So what brings you to Seventh Hour so early in the morning? From the looks of it, you have some business with my boss?" A question for a question, an eye for an eye. The question could easily pass as nothing but small talk, and the woman's answer would determine how much of a threat she could be.

Even so, something in his chest wiggled: a worm in the apple that was his heart. Something about the Asian made Sylvain feel restless, and it wasn't her apparent hostility. With that realization, the worm in his chest slowly uncoiled, reaching out to almost probe the space between the two humans. This scared him, in more ways than he'd admit. What was happening to him? What made the raven so special? What in the world was this lady doing to him!?

✄- - Sylvain's eyebrow gave a slight twitch, his perfect mask of politeness starting to crack with irritation and uneasiness. There was something very wrong with this chick, but the man wasn't sure of what exactly made her seem that way. But one thing was quite certain now: she was... definitely not normal. At least not in the traditional sense. At this point, the Italian couldn't tell whether the raven just had a grudge against the world of if she was just... It didn't matter, he was just annoyed because Jesus, what in the world was her problem? He didn't have to deal with so much attitude so early in the morning, so why in the world was he even doing so?

And for the love of whatever deity was watching him, why was she being so goddamn coy? Always glancing towards him and then away, was she trying to tell him something or what? And if she was trying to seduce him, as pretentious as he was to even consider the matter, then it was not working. Because God, it just wasn't, he didn't even have to explain himself; he was just that irritated.

Whatever you do, stay calm! a voice in the back of his head screamed at him, and he sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. Right, stay calm. He had to be calm if he wanted to be able to assess the situation clearly at all times, and if the shop was in as much danger as he was afraid it was in, then cool headedness could very well be the key to victory. Just like that, the mask on his face smoothed itself out again, and he was once again the polite tattoo artist acting as the clerk.

Then it happened. The Stare. (And yes, the capitalization was entirely necessary.) At the same time the probing worm in his heart recoiled in shock, a flush spread the raven's cheeks, painting them red. By this point, Sylvain almost wanted to plant his face against the counter, so flabbergasted was he was by the woman's reaction. By now, he was mostly certain that she was trying to play him, and like hell he was ever letting that happen. Sure, she was quite pretty, but the Italian wasn't really quite fond of girls who acted as coy as she.

Though the eared one's answer didn't reveal anything about her intentions, her following question certainly sent the alarm bells in his head off. The lady had had the gall to ask him for his name. Now, Sylvain usually wouldn't have minded it if a pretty woman asked him for his name (or number, wink wink), but under these circumstances... It was more than a bit odd. With this, the blond sighed, regretting the fact he had forgotten to put his name tag on. At least then, he could've just had the thing do all the talking for him.

"Sylvain Rosengard, at your service," he answered with a painful smile. "I'm not usually the receptionist, since I work here as a tattoo artist, but it seems the boss has yet to find one, so we all have to take a few shifts." An introduction and some small talk, not bad. Mentally, the blond gave himself brownie points, because by some miracle, he had managed to say it all without letting any of his previous frustration show. Anyway, couldn't hurt to return the question, could it? "And you would be...?"