Chapter 162: Thoughts, Thoughts, Thoughts [FIXED!][24/09!]

Liam sat on the edge of his couch, elbows on his knees, staring at nothing in particular. The apartment was quiet again — Sara long gone, her scent still faintly lingering in the air, an unwelcome reminder that she had actually been here, inside his space, waiting for him like she had every right to be.

He knew right away this wasn’t just about him losing his job anymore.

Arthur’s fingerprints were on something bigger. The termination had been step one — petty, calculated, but almost surface-level compared to what Liam was starting to piece together now. Sara showing up like this, knowing exactly where to find him, moving like she was still somehow connected to Arthur’s orbit — that wasn’t a coincidence. That was design.

And the woman herself had felt different. Not the Sara he remembered. Something harder behind her eyes, something calculating in the way she’d studied him today like she was measuring him against some private scale only she could see.

Liam exhaled slowly, rubbing a hand down his face.

"Not today."

He didn’t have the bandwidth to unpack all of that right now. There was a business to build, a firm to get off the ground, more immediate priorities that actually deserved his energy. Arthur and Sara would still be there tomorrow. He needed rest more than he needed answers at — he glanced at the clock — well past eleven.

He thought about calling Darren, just to vent, then stopped himself. Darren had Keiza. A life outside of being Liam’s sounding board every time something went sideways. Liam wasn’t about to be that guy who called his best friend at any time of the day because an ex-girlfriend decided to letterbox herself into his apartment.

Instead, he pulled out his phone and searched 24 hour locksmith near him.

The first result had decent reviews. He called.

"Yeah, this is Marv," a gravelly voice answered after two rings.

"Hey, I need someone to come change a lock today if possible. Had an... incident. Someone got in who shouldn’t have."

"Break-in?"

"Not exactly. Old key that should’ve been returned a while back."

"Ah, ex trouble." Marv chuckled, not unkindly. "Say no more, buddy. I can be there in forty minutes."

"Appreciate it."

True to his word, thirty-eight minutes later there was a knock at the door. Liam opened it to a stocky older man in a faded work jacket, toolbox in one hand, flashlight in the other.

"You must be the one with the break-in," Marv said, already crouching to examine the door handle.

"Something like that."

"This the only entry point? No back door, windows with easy access?"

"Just this one."

Marv nodded, running his fingers along the lock housing. "Alright. Gonna swap this whole deadbolt out, put in something a little more serious than what you got now. This builder-grade stuff—" he tapped the existing lock with a screwdriver, "—garbage. Anybody with a bump key and ten minutes could’ve popped this open."

"Great," Liam muttered. "Good to know after the fact."

Marv laughed, already pulling tools out of his box. "That’s how it always goes. Nobody thinks about security till somebody’s already been in the house."

He worked in silence for a minute, then glanced up. "So. Ex-girlfriend, huh?"

Liam leaned against the doorframe, arms crossed. "That obvious?"

"Forty years doing this job, you learn the categories fast. Ex with an old key’s the classic. Had a guy last month, ex-wife let herself in and rearranged his entire living room out of spite. Didn’t take anything, just moved every piece of furniture two feet to the left. Messed with the man’s head more than actual theft would’ve."

Liam huffed a short laugh despite himself. "That’s diabolical."

"People get creative when they’re hurt." Marv shrugged, twisting a screw into place. "You want my honest opinion?"

"Sure."

"Change the lock, sure, that’s step one. But whatever she wanted by coming here — closure, attention, whatever it is — that’s a conversation, not a hardware problem. I just fix doors, kid. Can’t fix the rest of it."

Liam nodded slowly, more to himself than to Marv. "Yeah. I know."

"Alright." Marv gave the new deadbolt a firm turn, testing it, then stepped back. "That oughta hold. Nobody’s walking through that without a key or a battering ram."

"How much do I owe you?"

Marv named a figure. Liam paid it without argument, adding a generous tip on top, which earned him a approving nod.

"Get some sleep," Marv said, gathering his tools. "Whatever’s going on, it’ll still be there tomorrow."

"Yeah," Liam said, shutting the door behind him and testing the new lock himself — solid, heavy, satisfying in a way the old one never had been. "That’s exactly what I’m afraid of."

He turned off the lights and headed to bed, finally letting his eyes close.

-

This world had given Liam something he hadn’t expected — a strange, quiet kind of peace. Not the absence of chaos, because there was plenty of that still lurking in the corners of his life, but something steadier underneath it. A foundation. He noticed it most in the small moments, like now, lying in bed in the middle of the afternoon after sending Sophia a text to confirm she’d grab Mateo from school herself.

[Liam: hey, can’t make the pickup today, you good to grab him?]

[Sophia: of course, he’s my responsibility anyway lol. you okay?]

[Liam: yeah, just need to rest for a bit]

He’d meant it when he sent it. Rest sounded good in theory. In practice, his mind had other plans.

Ten minutes passed. Then twenty. Liam stared at the ceiling, willing his body to relax, but sleep simply refused to come. His thoughts kept circling back to everything — Arthur, Sara, the building, Vanessa, the sheer weight of everything he was building from scratch — and no amount of eyes-closed stillness was quieting any of it.

He sighed and sat up, running a hand through his hair.

"A walk. That’s what I need."

Movement had always cleared his head better than lying still ever could. He swung his legs over the side of the bed, grabbed his phone off the nightstand, and sat there for a second longer, letting his mind wander before it could spiral somewhere darker.

That’s when he remembered — Darren, a few weeks back, mentioning offhand that he’d been thinking about getting a tattoo. Something about marking a new Chapter, moving past the version of himself that used to run with people like Drake.

Liam turned the thought over. A tattoo. Something permanent, something his. A way of marking this strange rebirth he’d stumbled into, system and all.

He wasn’t about to walk into just anywhere, though. Not after the Mateo situation — he still cringed thinking about how close that whole barbershop debacle had come to going sideways. Quality mattered. He needed somewhere legitimate, somewhere with an actual reputation.

He pulled up his phone and searched nearby shops, scrolling through reviews for a few minutes until one caught his eye — Ironwood Ink, four and a half stars, a portfolio full of clean linework and detailed shading that actually looked like art rather than someone’s garage hobby.

It was good enough.

Liam grabbed his jacket off the chair and headed out. The sun still hung fairly high, warm without being overbearing, the kind of light that made a walk feel more like a reset button than a chore. He decided against calling a car — his legs needed the movement more than his schedule needed the time saved.

The streets were quieter than usual this time of day. Liam kept his hands in his pockets, letting his mind slowly unclench with every block he put behind him. There was something almost meditative about it — no phone calls, no meetings, no system notifications demanding his attention. Just him, the sidewalk, and the low hum of the city around him.

By the time Ironwood Ink came into view — a clean storefront with dark paneling and a window display of framed flash art — Liam felt lighter than he had in hours. He paused outside for a moment, glancing through the glass at the artists working inside, the buzz of tattoo machines faintly audible even through the door.

He took a breath, pushed the door open, and stepped inside.

The moment Liam stepped through the door, he understood exactly what kind of place he’d walked into. Exposed brick walls lined with framed flash art, sleek black leather chairs, low ambient lighting that made everything feel deliberate rather than accidental. This wasn’t a place that advertised prices on a wall — it was the kind of place where if you had to ask, you probably couldn’t afford it.

Liam wasn’t worried about that part, at least.

He glanced around the space, noting how empty it was — a single artist near the back, the rest of the stations quiet. Made sense, given the price tag this level of craftsmanship likely carried.

That’s when he noticed her.

A woman near the front counter, dark hair pulled back, a black face mask covering the lower half of her face, piercings lining both ears and one eyebrow. She had a presence that fit the space perfectly, like she’d been carved out of the same aesthetic as the shop itself.

Liam waited a beat, half-expecting some kind of system notification — a new tier alert, a prompt, something. Nothing came.

Relief settled over him almost instantly. No performance required. No angle to play. Just a normal interaction.

The woman gestured toward an empty chair without a word. Liam sat.

She pointed to her own arm, then tilted her head toward him — a silent question. "Where do you want it?"

"Honestly," Liam said, "I don’t really have a design in mind yet. Could you maybe show me some options?"

She studied him for a long moment, eyes narrowing slightly above the mask. He could practically hear the judgment radiating off her — pretty boy walks in with zero plan. He almost laughed at how transparent it was.

Then, wordlessly, she reached up and pulled the mask down.

Liam’s breath caught slightly. A small silver stud sat beneath her lip, and when she spoke for the first time, he caught the faint glint of a tongue piercing too but closed her mouth almost immediately.

Liam smiled sheepishly. "In my defense, I didn’t plan this very far ahead."

She raised an eyebrow, unimpressed, and reached for a binder off the counter.