Page 217 of Fatality

“Stop smiling,” I grumble. “And fucking explains it to me.”

“Evren, it’s really not that complicated,” she says. “A tattoo machine can look like a gun or a pen, depending on what the artist is comfortable with.”

She pauses, gesturing with her hands.

“You insert a needle into the machine and secure it at the tip. Then you dip the needle into a small ink reservoir. The needle has a cartridge—it can be plastic, steel... it depends.”

I nod. She’s explaining it clearly.

Good.

“But sometimes the ink doesn’t flow properly. The needle doesn’t always pick it up the way it should—”

My eyes widen, and my brows knit together in irritation and utter disbelief.

What the fuck?

How did she go from explaining how it works to listing every problem she runs into?

I lunge forward and cup her cheeks, my thumbs brushing her cheekbones to keep her attention on me.

“Focus,” I say, my voice low and commanding. “Focus on how it works, not the side stories.”

I hold her gaze, her eyes wide.

“I don’t give a shit whether the needle picks up the ink properly. I give a shit about you answering what I asked. How does it work? And what the hell is traditional?”

She takes a deep breath before pushing my wrists away. I let her reject my touch even if I’m irritated by it.

“Okay, so once the ink and the machine are ready, we prepare the skin. We shave the area if there’s too much hair, then we apply a transfer gel or balm to it, okay?”

I simply nod.

“Then, most of the time, we already drew the design, so we transfer it from paper to transfer paper and use a thermal printer to print the drawing on the transfer paper, once it’s done, you cut around and place it on the area. With the balm, the drawing prints itself on the skin.”

She pauses.

“We let it dry and when it’s done, we take the tattoo machine and start—”

“Starts what?” I ask, impatiently, leaning slightly closer to her.

“Shut the fuck up and let me talk”

My eyes narrow, and my fists clench before slowly relaxing again.

I obey, for now.

“So, we turn the machine on. The needle moves in and out of the cartridge, picking up ink and carrying it to the tip. It can puncture the skin anywhere from fifty to two hundred times per second, depending on the voltage and what you're trying to achieve.”

She pauses to make sure I'm following.

“The needle pierces the skin with each puncture, like a tiny knife cutting your skin as I move the machine. It deposits the ink into the dermis—the second layer of your skin—where it stays.”

“So basically, you’re drawing on people while cutting their skin, and you call that a tattoo?” I smirk.

She springs to her feet on the floor, the chair rolling a few inches away with the momentum and flicks my forehead.

My eyes widen, not because it hurts—Even if it had, my pain dampeners would have kicked in and dulled it—No, I’m surprised.