Written by Lyka C., Manila – 11th March 2025
I don't usually talk about my clients.
In our world—tattooing for the ultra-rich, the political, the famous—discretion is as sacred as sterilisation. But I need to unload this guilt somewhere before it eats me alive.
My name is Lyka. I'm 28, born in Quezon City, raised by a seamstress and a drunk welder. I discovered ink the same way most kids discover trouble—by accident. I was 13, sketching on my arms with needles and pen ink. By 16, I had apprenticed under a tito in Makati who taught me how to mix pigment like it was alchemy. By 22, I had invented my signature glow formula—tattoos that react to UV light and low sun, revealing hidden designs. They became my calling card. My queue started filling with names I only used to see on billboards and the Forbes list.
It was thrilling at first. All cash. All compliments.
Until the requests got… strange.
I've inked the map of Mars onto a woman's inner thigh.
A prayer in Aramaic circling a man's ribcage like a serpent.
One guy wanted a crucified Jesus—but with his face—on his back.
I declined that one.
But none of those compare to what happened two months ago.
Her name was Clara Mae Tranquillo, heiress to a shipping conglomerate, one of those faces in the magazines with the caption "Untouchable Beauty." I knew of her. Who didn't? Porcelain skin, icy aura, jawline like a Greek statue. I was flattered she came to me—personally. No assistant, no driver. Just walked into my discreet studio in Pasig, sunglasses on, like she was dodging sunlight.
She was wearing a cropped blazer with nothing underneath. And I mean nothing.
She said she wanted something "intimate."
A minimalist design, solar-reactive, meant only for her and a "select few" to see. I assumed it was inner thigh, lower back—places I've worked on many times.
Then she pointed to her chest and said, in the calmest voice:
"My nipples. Both of them. A thin, luminous ring. Like Saturn."
I blinked. "Miss Tranquillo, that's not something I—"
"It's not for sex," she interrupted. "It's art. It's ownership."
I was stunned. You see, in our industry, nudity isn't shocking. But this? This was different. The area is sensitive, risk-prone, and frankly, deeply symbolic. I felt like I'd be crossing a line—hers and mine.
I told her no.
She smiled politely, stood, and placed a rolled-up wad of peso bills on my counter. It was already double my usual VIP rate.
I told her still no.
She added another roll.
Triple.
I stared.
She pulled out her phone, tapped something, and turned the screen toward me. A live bank transfer. Now it was four times my rate.
"Consent is power," she said, "and I'm consenting."
I wish I could say I was strong. That I turned her down again. That I stuck to my code.
But I didn't.
The money, the moment—it warped me. I told myself I could make it clinical. Clean. Just lines on skin. No meaning.
I put on gloves. Sanitised twice. I didn't look her in the eyes.
The design was thin, elegant—like silver rings hovering just above her skin. It took me two hours, mostly because my hands were shaking. She didn't flinch. Not once. Just stared at the ceiling like she was floating somewhere else.
When I was done, she stood in front of the mirror and whispered:
"Now I'm divine."
She left without another word.
For days, I felt sick. I washed my hands constantly. I couldn't sleep. I dreamt of my mother asking me why I'd sold out. I imagined my ink glowing on her chest while strangers admired it.
And it didn't stop there.
More clients came after, requesting glow-in-the-dark designs in… unspeakable places. One wanted a tattoo of angel wings around his anus—visible only under UV light. Another asked for spells to be carved into her scalp so that her hair would hide them. One man begged me to tattoo the inside of his eyelids.
I refused all of them.
But the whispers won't stop.
They say I'm the tattooist who made Clara Mae divine.
They say I'm willing to do "the impossible."
But here's the truth:
I'm not proud.
I'm not special.
I'm just a woman who got pushed across her boundaries by wealth and a twisted definition of art.
And sometimes, when I walk into my dark studio and the sunlight hits my wall just right, I swear I see her outline glowing on the tiles.
This is my confession.
Not for fame.
Not for pity.
Just so I can breathe again.
—Lyka