Gabriel leans against a vinyl reclining chair, his chin propped on his fingers, his eyes searching my body. If he’s shocked by my scars, he doesn’t show it. He just keeps scanning me, inch by inch.

“I’m going to tell you the same thing I told Piper, then,” he says finally. “You don’t need a tattoo.”

“You’re not much of a salesman,” I say.

“Hear me out. Everybody comes in here, picks an image off that wall to tell the world who they are. Express themselves.” He reaches out to me, but stops right before he touches my skin. “May I?

I nod. He grabs both my hands, seemingly unfazed by them, and holds my arms out wide.

“But you? Your scars tell your story.”

“And what story is that?” I say.

He looks right at me with true-blue intensity.

“That you’re stronger than whatever tried to kill you.”

Even though I can barely feel his touch through my numb skin, shivers squiggle through me.

“Forget the ink,” he says. “You’re already a walking piece of badass art.”

Asad rolls his eyes behind the guy. I ignore his mockery, although I have to admit this guy is out there. I stand mesmerized for a minute until Asad waves his hand between us.

“So are we doing this or what?”

“Yes, yes, we’re doing this,” I say. “This tattoo isn’t just about me; it’s about Piper. She needs to know I’m on her side, no matter what.”

Gabriel studies the bird on the paper again and pulls a pen out of his man bun.

“Okay, but if we’re doing a phoenix, we’re not doing this sad sketch. We’re gonna do it right.”

Like magic, he transforms the bird with ink, turning the small image into a masterpiece.

“I love it,” I say.

He vanishes behind the beaded curtain again for a minute and comes out with a woman whose arms are covered shoulder to wrist with colorful ink.

“Technically, I’m still an apprentice so the boss-woman’s gotta babysit me,” Gabriel says. The woman smiles and shakes my hand, her eyes roving over my scars in a way that feels like when Tony looked at me after my audition, a kind of wonder mixed with—respect?

Gabriel ushers me to a reclining chair, where he pulls up on a wheeled stool just like the one Dr. Sharp uses. Between the antiseptic smell and vinyl chair, I almost feel like I’m back in his office, about to go under the knife again.

But like I told Cora, this time, I choose the scar.