Whispers of Mayhem

I always suspected I wasn’t exactly human. I mean, when you’re immune to fire and see visions straight out of a horror movie flick—it gets a little tedious trying to play normal.

So yeah, I’m just a tattoo artist—inked up, pounding margs, surviving sweaty gym sessions, and inking the worst regrets of drunken idiots. Doesn’t that sound like paradise to you?

Then this asshole swaggers into my shop, strutting around like he owns the place, and drops a coin on me like it’s a damn calling card. Suddenly my sisters and I are left scratching our heads, trying to decode the riddle of what the hell we actually are. Spoiler alert: apparently, we’re some kind of creature. Which kind? Your guess is as good as mine.

But here’s the kicker: if we don’t figure it out fast, rumor says we’ll be parting ways with our heads. Cute, right? Honestly, if anyone’s going to be taking heads, it’s going to be me.

Not that I’d complain. I do love the color red—blood red. Now that’s a shade worth painting the walls with.

After all, a splash of color adds personality, don’t you think?