The hum of the tattoo gun droned on, filling the tiny parlour with a vibration that seemed to echo in Arte's bones. The walls were decorated in faded, mismatched posters of old rock bands and Japanese woodblock prints, he wanted to fit in.

He was fourteen, but the weight of the moment made him feel older-- old enough to make his own decisions, 'Old enough to break the rules...' That was what she had told him anyway.

Her name was Ms. Calloway, though she had insisted that he call her Liz whenever she had picked him up after school hours.

She had an air of careless grace, her hair an untamed chestnut wave that fell over her shoulder, and her lipstick a shade too dark to match the usual demure clothing she wore when dressed to school.

In the dim glow of the parlour's neon sign, she looked even more striking, a sharp contrast to his uncertainty. She moved with a confidence that made Arte feel small and clumsy, her gaze a blend of warmth and something else--something just beneath the surface that drew him in like a moth to a flame.

"Have you thought about what you want?" She asked, her voice soft but edged with a teasing challenge.

Arte had of course imagined a thousand designs--wolves, wings, symbols of power-- but none of them seemed right to him in that moment, none of them felt as heavy or as real as the coil of anxiety and...thrill? he was feeling now.

Liz's hand rested on his shoulder, squeezing slightly, sending a jolt up his spine, "How about something like... this, chains." he murmured, surprised at his own voice. He wasn't sure where the idea had come from; it was a feeling he couldn't quite put into words, the quiet weight he felt every time he sat alone at lunch or walked home from school, or even the time he had met his dad.

"A chain tattoo?" Liz raised an eyebrow, her dark eyes glinting with something unreadable. "Cool. I like it." She grinned, an approving gleam set in her eye that made him flush with a twisted sense of pride.

Arte felt seen.

The artist, a gruff man with sleeves of ink and piercing eyes, began his work. Arte winced as the needle bit into his skin, each prick a steady rhythm that began to sink him into a trance. Liz watched, a half-smile on her lips, her fingers brushing lightly against his arm now and then, acting as an anchor to hold him there in her world.

The chain took shape on his pale arm, each link etched with a meticulous care that felt almost reverent. The design twisted up his wrist and his forearm, heavy and dark, each link somehow feeling as though it held some part of him.

Arte had spoke to her about things he usually kept buried; the brushing loneliness, the secrets, the expectations he couldn't live up to as a son, his father that didn't want him, and even his mum who acted as though she had no love for him anymore.

Somehow, Liz had drawn all of that out with brief conversation, a lingering touch and that half-lidded gaze.

"Painful?" she asked, her voice a quiet murmur in his ear, breath warm against his skin.

"No," Arte lied, feeling a swell of something like shame mixed with a longing he didn't understand.

As the artist finished, Arte stared down at the chain on his arm. It wasn't what he'd imagined a tattoo would feel like. It wasn't a badge of freedom or rebellion-- it was a mark, a quiet declaration of captivity, like arm bands awakened people who weren't paladin or in some other special field had to wear.

Liz looked at him, her smile fading into something unreadable, something that almost seemed... proud.

"Looks good on you," she said softly, her hand resting on his arm a moment too long, before leading him out of the parlour, back into the cold air...

___

Arte lay sprawled across the bed, the tangled sheets a rumpled mess beneath him, his bare shoulder against cool linen, staring up at Liz's dimly lit ceiling. a stillness had settled into the room, thick and heavy, broken only by the slight rustling of her dress on the edge of the mattress.

Her bedroom was cloaked in low, amber light that softened the lines of the framed photographs on her walls, casting shadows across Arte's arm, still stinging from the fresh ink.

Liz sat over him, a lighter in one hand, a cigarette between his lips, her expression a strange mix of satisfaction and something more intense. "Breathe in," she murmured, her voice low and rich, coaxing. Her thumb rolled over the metal wheel, and the lighter sparked, igniting the cigarette's tip with a flash that made Arte squint.

The smoke curled up, tendrils twisting lazily through the room, thick and pungent. Arte inhaled too quickly, the acrid taste filling his lungs in a single harsh drag, and he stifled a cough as his eyes watered.

Liz chuckled softly, her fingers lingering at his wrist before pulling away. "There you go. Relax, let it settle." She moved back, off of him and now sitting on the edge of the bed, her back to him as she reached for her own cigarette from the nightstand.

The room was thick with layers of perfume and smoke, the scent clinging to Arte's skin, foreign and heavy. He held the cigarette to his lips, awkwardly imitating the movements he'd seen in movies, but the taste was wrong, stale and bitter.

His chest felt tight, and he could feel a dull ache stirring where the chain tattoo lay just beneath his sleeve.

He stared at it, wondering if all of this was what he had wanted. All of this, breaking rules, stepping into a world that felt raw and dangerous, a place where he could shed the brittle shell of himself and try on something harder, someone more worthy.

But in the silence, with Liz turned away, he felt... hollow. The thrill was starting to ebb, slipping away to reveal something sharper underneath, a kind of quiet dread creeping up his spine.

He tried to shake it, forcing himself to take another drag, feeling the smoke curl into his lungs, stale and harsh.

She turned back to him, watching with an unreadable expression as the cigarette burned in his fingers. "You're a fast learner," She said, a touch of amusement graced her voice as she stood, stretching leisurely, letting her chestnut hair fall in a cascade down her back. The loose waves catching the dim light.

She didn't look away; instead she leaned in, bringing herself down until they were face-to-face, her breath warm and scented faintly of something sweet mixed with the smoky haze.

His head buzzed, thoughts swirling in a haze of longing and confusion. Her touch still lingering on his skin, he felt something flickering to life, a spark he had never known before- a sense of being seen, of belonging, in a way he'd yearned for from those that should have provided it for him.

She provided what he cried out for without even realizing.

A nervous knot twisted in his stomach, and before he could stop himself, he leaned forward, his voice low, almost in the hum of the silence, "Do you... do you love me?"

The words were fragile, barely even a whisper, hanging in the air like something delicate and trembling, something he wished she would reach out and hold, to give weight and meaning to what he didn't fully understand himself. His eyes met hers, searching, desperately hoping to see his own ache mirrored there, some recognition of what he was feeling, the relief, the safety, the warmth she brought him that felt like a lifeline.

For a brief, shimmering moment, he thought he saw her gaze soften, her lips parting as if she were going to say something. But then, just as quickly, her expression shifted, the warmth in her eyes cooling into something unreadable. A chuckle escaped her, soft and dismissive, like he'd told a sweet and silly joke.

"Oh Arte..." she let out, her voice tinged with amusement. She shook her head as she continued laughing, the trace of a smile on her lips. "You're such a kid."

His heart stuttered, the hopeful, fragile part of him shrinking back, recoiling as though her laughter were a physical blow. Something cracked within him, a dull, spreading ache that unfurled, bleeding through his chest.

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He tried to make sense of it, had he misunderstood her touch?, the looks she gave him?, the moment they just shared? Had he simply imagined the connection, the warmth he thought was meant for him?

Her gaze lingered on him for a moment longer, as if humouring him, she kissed his cheek before turning and moving casually across the room toward the bathroom. The sound of her steps, the soft click of the door shutting behind her, left him hollow and adrift, alone in a place he no longer understood.

As the silence swallowed him, Arte felt his pulse thundering in his ears, each beat pressing down on his chest with a weight that made it hard to breathe. His fingers clutched at the bedsheets, grounding himself against the urge to sink, to disappear, to let the floor open up beneath him and swallow him whole.

He could feel his cheeks burning, his vision blurring, each breath sharp and shallow as the reality seeped in, the warmth, the affection, it was all... nothing.

The cigarette in his hand had burned down, it's embers faint, flickering in the ashtray. He took one last, bitter drag, the smoke searing down his throat, filling his lungs with a taste that was harsh and empty, like every promise she's left unspoken. He felt a surge of shame and hurt rising in him, the sting was unbearable.

A glow was now forming on him, wrapping itself around his skin, he recognized it immediately and only seen it as another problem he didn't know what to do with.

He flicked the cigarette into the ashtray and forced himself to his feet, his hands trembling as he moved toward the window. He fumbled with the latch, his fingers clumsy as the dull ache in his chest swallowed him, leaving nothing but an echo of the hollow, bruising hurt.

Without another glance back, he climbed out of it into the night air, closing the window softly behind him. The cold washed over him, sharp and biting, each step taking him farther from that room, from the moment he'd mistaken for something it could never be.

The night was pouring, it had began raining. He took out his phone and scanned through the phone app, thinking that he would have at least had some missed calls, but no, not even a text.

He scrolled, not far, but until he reached the label named -Mom-. He dialled her number and the phone rang five times before the woman on the other end picked up.

"{Arte. Where are you?}" She didn't sound concerned, which came as a comfort to Arte, the concerned parent role wouldn't suit her.

Arte didn't answer her, he didn't know what to say. He couldn't even think of why he had called her.

Why?

Why..?

Why...?

His breathing became more shallow, "{Hope you didn't forget to buy the eggs.}"

He did forget,

The line crackled with a silence as Arte stood under the pouring rain, waiting for something --anything-- to fill the ache gnawing at him.

"{Well Arte?}" Her tone was indifferent, not quite concerned, not quite dismissive, as if she were waiting on hold for something she could barely remember wanting. "{You there?}"

Arte swallowed, the bitter taste of the cigarette smoke lingering in his mouth. He realized he was clinging to the phone more than he's wanted to, seeking warmth in her voice that he knew he wouldn't find. But he stayed silent, feeling the raindrops seep through his jacket, the cold sinking deeper into his skin.

"{Look if you're going to be out late that's fine,}" There was a pause, then another faint sigh, tired and worn. "{You know, sometimes... sometimes it's hard to understand you, you get too quiet. This town's too quiet. I wish we'd moved, you know?}"

Arte's grip on the phone tightened, the words catching in his throat. This was familiar-- her low, wistful murmuring about a life she regrets not taking serious enough, letting it slip from her fingers. A dream of someone she thought she'd be but could never touch. Arte had heard this tone before, that distant musing she drifted into, like he wasn't even there.

He finally forced out, "I... I got a tattoo."

"{You what?}" Her voice perked up, not sharp, but with a hint of surprise and maybe a hint of gladness and satisfaction. "{Arte, really? At your age?}" She paused, he waited for more of the reprimand to come, but it never did. Instead her voice softened back into that vague tone, "{Well... It's your choice.}"

He almost laughed, a hollow, broken sound that barely left his lips. He didn't know why he was telling her. He just wanted... what did he want? Maybe just the feeling that someone was paying attention, that someone would remember what he'd done or who he was, that someone might care enough to hold him to anything.

The silence stretched, and he thought she'd ended the call until she spoke up again, quieter this time. "{Anyway... I'm going to bed. You get home safe.}"

She didn't wait for a reply before he heard the faint click, her side of the line going dead.

Arte lowered the phone, staring at the screen as rain pooled on it, the soft glow flickering in the dark. He liked to believe his mother always meant well, like when she had forcefully brought him to see a father he didn't even ask after.

She never blamed him for his own mistakes, didn't belittle him, but somehow that quiet acceptance, her passiveness, sometimes cut deeper than anything she could have said. He felt like he had been offered a hand, only to have it slowly slip away, leaving him reaching for nothing in the dark.

His footsteps echoed on the empty sidewalk as he walked, phone still clenched in his hand, heart heavy with an ache he didn't know how to name. The rain washed over him, each drop mingling with the quiet.

He didn't pick his head up for a while until he realized he was in his school, the school which always had many gaps surrounding it allowing anyone to sneak in. Arte was at his school.

.

.

The school roof was... very tall.

It was soaked, rain pounding down as Arte stood at the edge, staring down at the concrete far below. The world around him blurred, each raindrop a heavy pulse that only magnified the relentless ache in his chest, a feeling so raw it was tearing him apart from the inside. His thoughts spun wildly, as though the wind and the rain were coaxing him forward, urging him to let go, to fall.

But as he took a shuddering breath, his phone buzzed in his pocket, a faint lifeline in the darkness pressing down on him. He didn't want to look, didn't want anything pulling him away from this moment, but something inside him forced his hand.

The screen lit up through the rain; Quiet hour, the final episode, the last night he'd hear Gregory Knox, the hero.

Arte's heart beat painfully at the thought. Hero's voice had been a lifeline of his, the one voice that dimmed the noise, and brought life to the dead. Tonight was supposed to be the end, not just for Arte, but for Quiet hour, the podcast that had kept him company in his loneliest hours.

He wanted to be the one he picked up his last call to, but he also didn't.

Hands trembling, he pressed the call button. The phone rang, each dial tone cutting through the silence around him until it finally clicked.

.

"{Congratulations, you are our last caller for the show.}" A familiar playful voice filled his ears, warm and grounding, and Arte felt his breath catch. "{Welcome stranger. You're on Quiet Hour,}" Hero said, his voice as calm as ever, and Arte's heart twisted.

"{What's on your mind?}" The voice was softer compared to his usual tone on the podcast.

Arte opened his mouth, feeling words jumbled and tangled in his throat, unsure how to make sense of the storm inside him. The rain fell harder, plastering his hair to his forehead, but he hardly felt the cold.

"Sorry... I don't really know why I called,"

A silence hung, but it was steady, patient, like the host had already heard this from hundreds of callers before him.

"{Yeah?}" The hero said, a light chuckle escaped his breath. "{Sometimes, it's good to have someone on the other end of the line, even if it feels like there's nothing to say. Just being here, connected, can mean something. So, here you are.}"

Arte shivered, feeling the edge of the rooftop beneath him, as solid and final as the dark emptiness below. His mind felt distant, scattered, like the words he'd tried so hard to suppress might come out in broken pieces. "It's like, being so high up, you hope things would start to feel different, lighter maybe."

Gregory Knox went quiet, the line charged. "{Lighter, huh?}" The voice softened, a note of empathy threading through, "{That's a heavy place to be... looking down on the world like that. It can feel as though your looking at everything and nothing all at once.}"

Arte's fingers tightened around the phone. He'd listened to Quiet Hour for years, to Gregory Knox's voice that he felt was only speaking to him in the quiet nights, his laughter and stories winding through Arte's mind.

"You ever feel like it'd be easier... to just disappear?" His voice was drowned out by the rain and a loud scream of thunder that didn't even startle the still boy.

"{Yeah, I know the feeling. Happens to the best of us...}" The man's response was slow and deliberate. "{Let me tell you something: there is a lot more power in staying. Just like how you've stayed on the line}"

His voice held a warmth that Arte had previously rejected, now it felt as though it was seeping into his bones.

The rain was chilling him to the core.

"{Stay on the line, if you do so long enough a light will show up. Might not be bright, might not be clear, but there's always something at the end of the line.}"

The rain blurred Arte's vision, but he clung to those words. He didn't speak but his breathing was rapid, he clutched his chest with his left hand as if trying to slow it down.

"{It's okay if you can't see it yet. Maybe it's not about seeing it right now, maybe it's just about holding onto the line and knowing that it's there even if you're not sure where it's leading you.}"

Arte closed his eyes, feeling the last of his defences crumble. For the first time, he allowed himself to let go, to feel the enormity of the ache inside of him, all of it spilling out in the quiet between him and the persona on the other end. "Thank you," he whispered, his voice thick with a kind of release he hadn't known he needed.

He let his phone slip from his fingers, the sound of it's shatter barely audible as it fell from the roof and cracked against the ground below. Arte drew in a trembling breath, stepping back, the rain mingling with the tears on his face. He felt his knees give way, dropping down to the cold, wet concrete, and he clutched his arms around himself, a quiet sob escaping as the weight he'd carried alone for so long was starting to ease.

He stayed there, letting the tears come, letting himself feel, all the words and feelings unspoken finding their way out into the night, until he was left with only the faint echo of that voice sticking to his memory. Just stay on the line...