Chapter Twelve: Bonds of Fate

“The second one, I choose the second one! I won’t let those two despicable cheaters get what they want. My husband’s millions belong to me and me alone!” Xu Feifei shouted without hesitation, her composure as a refined lady nowhere to be found. Her eyes were bloodshot, her face contorted by a greedy longing for money.

I shook my head at Uncle Jin, my heart utterly devoid of feeling for Xu Feifei, filled only with revulsion. Both she and Old Zhao were wealthy, yet Old Zhao was warm and sentimental, while the former goddess before me had transformed into a greedy fiend, reeking of the stench of money.

“Kid, your Yin-Yang Tattoos have a pattern called ‘The Thread of Fate,’ right? Give her that one. It’ll go perfectly with the dye I gave you yesterday—it couldn’t be a better match.”

A twinge of discomfort twisted in my chest. Why did Old Jin know so much about my Yin-Yang Tattoos and their effects? Did he have some ulterior motive? I pulled him aside and lowered my voice. “Uncle Jin, you know as well as I do that Yin tattoos can be dangerous. If anything goes wrong…”

“She picked it herself, didn’t she? We laid out the options, and we follow the client’s wishes. We’re in the service business too—the client comes first!” Old Jin replied with a grin. The business sealed, he wasted no more time with me and hurried off to play mahjong, tail wagging like a delighted pup. I glanced at Xu Feifei. “Are you sure you want a Yin tattoo?”

“Enough talk. Do it. You’ll get your money.” With that, she pulled 30,000 yuan from her Hermès bag and slapped it on my table. “If it works, there’ll be a bonus for you. Your little shop probably doesn’t make this much in months.”

A wave of nausea washed over me. Why do people, as they grow older, let vanity and greed corrupt them so thoroughly? I just wanted to finish the tattoo and send her on her way.

I sat down at the table and began sketching, the pencil scratching softly against the paper. The design depicted two delicate ghostly hands clasped tightly together, wrists bound with strands of vivid red string—a lovely image, in its way.

There’s a strange legend behind this pattern. Long ago, a poor scholar journeyed to the capital for his exams. On the way, he stopped at a temple and met the daughter of a wealthy family who’d come to seek her fortune in love. The two fell for each other, their passion kindling into a secret vow. The girl became pregnant; the scholar succeeded in his exams. But when he returned, her pregnancy was discovered. Fearing for his career, the scholar broke off the engagement in public.

Shamed nearly to fainting, the girl’s father was furious and had the scholar beaten to death on the spot. Later, the pregnant girl went back to the temple to demand of the priest why her fate had been so cruel. The priest took pity and told her of a master tattooist who could alter her destiny and bring her beloved back to her side, ensuring he would obey her in all things.

Desperate, she sought out the tattooist, who inked the ‘Thread of Fate’ pattern onto her body. Strangely enough, a few days later, a torrential downpour led a destitute scholar to seek shelter at her home. He looked exactly like her former fiancé! Realizing the tattoo’s power, she asked, “Would you marry into my family and give up your scholarly ambitions?” The young man agreed, and so her story ended happily—more or less.

When I finished the tale, I sighed. “But I wonder if the man who appeared was still the one she loved.”

“What does it matter? Once I have this tattoo, even if someone turns up who just looks like my husband, as long as he’s rich, I’ll be satisfied.”

I ignored her. Xu Feifei was now utterly blinded by greed. I wanted no further connection to her.

“This design requires you to lie down. It must be inked three inches below your collarbone, right over your heart. Are you willing?”

Without hesitation, Xu Feifei undid the straps of her blouse and bra and lay down. The abruptness of her action caught me off guard. Once a goddess in my eyes, she now lay half-naked before me, yet I felt nothing.

“What, never seen this before?” she scoffed.

Suppressing my irritation, I pricked her finger for three drops of blood and let them fall into the ink. The process, both the drawing and the ritual, was far more complicated than with Old Zhao’s tattoo. After all, this was a Yin tattoo. I tested the reaction of the spirit, and seeing nothing amiss, I breathed a quiet sigh of relief.

It really was a beautiful image: two slender ghostly hands, bones fine and elegant, bound by bright red threads. I draped a cloth over her chest for modesty, placed my hand lightly on her collarbone, and began inking. Half an hour passed, and with half the tattoo complete, Xu Feifei began to act strangely. Her face was flushed, her eyes dreamy, and she fidgeted on the table, murmuring softly, “I kind of want…”

Damn, was she getting a tattoo high?

Sometimes, when tattooing female clients, the pain can trigger a rush of endorphins, creating an unexpected euphoria—what the trade calls a ‘tattoo high.’ It’s why some tattooists cross the line with clients, and why our profession is looked down upon.

But work is work. I have a strict rule: never get involved with clients, especially now that the person before me was nothing more than a gold-digger consumed by greed.

“Stop moving. If you fidget, the design will turn out ugly.”

Hearing that her looks might suffer, Xu Feifei finally settled down.

As the spirit-infused dye took hold, the red threads came alive, winding naturally along the contours of the design, binding the two ghostly hands together completely. The spirit hovered over the tattoo like black mist, and a low, sharp voice shattered the silence: “I want you with me, for all eternity, never to part!”

Thinking of how even this spirit had been tortured by love, I let out a bitter laugh. With the tattoo finished and the spirit at rest, I couldn’t help but wonder: When love is bound by fate, is it still love at all?

Xu Feifei admired her new tattoo in the mirror, then turned to me. “You really do have some skill. But who knows if it’ll work. I’ll say it again—if it doesn’t, I’ll smash up your shop.”

“Don’t worry. Your husband will be putty in your hands. If anything happens, just give me a call.”

I handed her a packet of anti-inflammatory ointment, reminding her to keep the tattoo dry and to apply the ointment if there was any swelling after three days. She nodded, dressed herself in her expensive clothes, smoothed her hair, and transformed seamlessly back into an elegant socialite, all traces of her earlier greed now hidden. She strode out in high heels, leaving only a faint trace of perfume in the air.

I stared after her, lost in thought. This was my first time applying a Yin tattoo, and I had no idea what consequences it might bring. My grandfather’s books described sixty-four Yang tattoos and thirty-two Yin tattoos, their effects utterly different. Yang tattoos were mostly images of gods, animals, or objects. Yin tattoos, though, were tinged with something dark, always connected to spirits or demons.

I glanced at the thirty thousand yuan lying on the table and pocketed it. Another job done. Best not to see this former goddess again—especially after that awkward tattoo high episode, which still left me smoldering with embarrassment.

I called Xiao Wei to invite him out for a meal. After closing a deal, a little celebration was in order. Through the phone, I heard Old Zhao’s voice—they were playing mahjong and wanted me to join. So I jumped on my battered e-bike and set off.

“In a few days, I’ll use this money to get myself a car. I earn a decent salary now—riding around on an e-bike is a joke.” I patted the front of my ride in self-disgust, strapped on my helmet, and started the engine.

“Go helmetless these days and you get a fine and have to read a letter of apology aloud in public. That’s real humiliation.” Looking at my reflection in the mirror, I grinned. “Hmm, even a helmet can’t hide my good looks.”

As I set off, I noticed a man by the roadside staring straight at me. He looked to be in his forties, his upper body clad in a tattered jacket, prayer beads in one hand, his lower half dressed in the robes and cloth shoes of a Daoist priest—a ridiculous sight. But the e-bike was fast, and as he watched me intently, he faded from view before I had time to think more about it.