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Princess Anne’s tattoo parlor had been open mere days, yet it was already the city’s worst-kept secret. Crowds flocked daily, leaving her swamped—dozens of walk-ins, appointments stacked like ink-stained flashcards, and not enough hours to meet the demand. Her hands ached, her machines buzzed nonstop, and the waiting list stretched into next month. Desperate for relief, Anna posted a help-wanted sign by the register, praying for someone—anyone—with steady hands and a tolerance for chaos to walk through the door.
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