Hale
We enter the convention area for the final time and pause, both of us instinctively taking in the transformation. The space is almost unrecognizable. Four workstations dominate the center of the room, each surrounded by clusters of cameras angled to catch every movement, every mistake. Long bleachers line the perimeter, packed tight with a live audience. There are ten sections at least, each holding around fifty people. The sheer scale of it all makes my chest buzz with nervous energy. My fingers tap restlessly against my thigh, betraying what I’m trying to keep locked down.
My mom sits with Aksel’s parents near the front. She catches my eye and gives me a small wave, her other hand curled anxiously at her throat. Her nerves are written all over her face, but the sight of her here steadies me more than I expect. I still don’t really know her, not the way I want to, but I love her anyway, and I’m grateful she came.
“Stop worrying, Fylgja,” Aksel murmurs, leaning close. His breath is warm against my ear, sending an involuntary shiver down my spine. His hands knead my shoulders, slow and grounding, as we make our way toward our stations. “You’re going to be great.”
Nadine is already waiting, sharp-eyed and brusque as ever. At least her invasive cyclops of a girlfriend isn’t hovering this time. Small mercies. I still can’t stand Cammie.
“Well, finally,” Nadine announces loudly. “The lovebirds have arrived.”
Her voice echoes through the cavernous space as she waves us over with a dismissive flick of her hand, pointing out our placements. The stations are arranged in a straight line, parallel to the audience, so no one misses a thing. Aksel is positioned at one end, then Eric, then Layla, and finally me, anchoring the opposite side.
I’m relieved they didn’t put me next to Aksel. I love him, but today can’t be about watching him work. Today is about me. I’m here to win.
I fall into my routine, running through my checklist with near-religious devotion, checking and rechecking every detail until I’m sure nothing has been overlooked. The lights dim across the room, leaving each station bathed in its own harsh spotlight. The shift sends a ripple of anticipation through the crowd.
Iglancedowntheline.Everyonelooksready.
Focused.
Eric catches my eye, eyebrows raised as he takes it allinwithme.Hewinksandflashesathumbs-up.
“Ready to watch me win that million-dollar prize, babes?” he calls, earning a wave of laughter from the audience.
Layla answers before I can. “I’m willing to hire all three ofyou for the shop I’ll open with the prize money.” Her smirk is pure confidence, her posture relaxed and self-assured. She looks every inch an alpha, despite being a beta. She’s fierce, sharp, and unexpectedly kind. Somewhere along the way, I’ve grown really fond of her.
I laugh, shaking my head. “Same goes for you when I win, Layla. You’ve got a job with me anytime.”
She nods, accepting the challenge with an easy grace. We all know how close this is going to be. Any one of us could take it.
And somehow, despite that, we all want each other to succeed.
Nadine approaches with five strangers in tow and introduces them as our clients for the day. My assigned guest is a small omega woman, her petite frame already a canvas of piercings and tattoos. She beams at me, eyes flashing a vivid purple with barely contained excitement.
A harpy, then. Adrenaline junkies. Infamous for it. I already like her.
I offer my hand and introduce myself. Her grip is firm, and she squeezes just hard enough to make me wince. The second she opens her mouth, the words come tumbling out in a rush.
She’s watched every episode so far. Loved my work. Knew the moment she saw it that I was the artist she wanted. “Even if you’d been eliminated,” she says breathlessly, still clinging to my hand, “I would’ve followed you to whatever shop you ended up at.”
Her husband is a merman. She wants an underwater scene. She hops in place as she talks, vibrating with energy, and I have to gently reclaim my hand before she dislocates something.
We go over the details she wants incorporated, and onceeverything is clear, I roll over to the side table and start sketching. The image comes easily. A harpy skims the surface of the water mid-flight, one foot just barely kissing the waves. Beneath her, a merman rises toward the light, fingers reaching up to meet her toes through the surface tension. I add sea life, movement, texture, and details that will bring it all to life on skin.
The schedule runs automatically through my head. One hour to design. Thirty minutes for revisions. Ten and a half hours to tattoo. Every second accounted for.
I cannot fuck this up.
Just under forty-five minutes later, the design is finished. I love being ahead of schedule. I roll my chair over to where my client lounges on a cushioned table and hand her the sketch.
“Tell me what you love, what you like, and what you don’t,” I say. “I want it perfect before I ever put needle to skin.”
She stares at it for half a second before squealing. “Holy shit! That’s perfect.” She pauses, then points. “Could you add a date right here? Our anniversary?”
I make the adjustment, get her final approval, and transfer a loose outline onto her arm. I’m meticulous with placement, angling the figures so both the harpy and the merman are visible from nearly every perspective. The piece is larger than I originally planned.
Too large.
