Tattoo

The fluorescent lights of the YG practice room hummed with a low, electric frequency that always seemed to vibrate right against the base of Jiyong’s skull. It was late—or perhaps early, depending on whether one measured time by the sun or by the state of their own exhaustion.

Jiyong sat on the polished floor, his back against the mirrored wall. He was twenty-five, at the peak of a global whirlwind, yet in this quiet moment, he felt like a collection of jagged edges that didn’t quite fit into the box the world had built for him. His fingers traced the skin of his forearm, feeling the slight, raised texture of the ink already residing there. To the public, his tattoos were rebellious fashion statements. To him, they were anchors. They were the only things about his physical self that he had chosen for himself, rather than being carved out by stylists, photographers, or public expectations.

He pulled a crumpled piece of paper from his pocket. On it, in his own hurried, elegant script, were the words: *Too fast to live, too young to die.*

It was a mantra. A warning. A declaration. He could feel the phantom weight of it across the back of his shoulders, a protective seal against the crushing speed of his own life.

The door clicked open, and the heavy, rhythmic tread of expensive loafers echoed through the room. Jiyong didn't need to look up to know it was Kon Sonhyun. His manager was a man of quiet authority, thirty-seven years of age, with dark hair that never seemed out of place and silver-rimmed glasses that caught the light like mirrors.

"The van is downstairs, Jiyong," Sonhyun said, his voice calm but firm. "You have a recording session at ten tomorrow. You need at least four hours of sleep if you want your voice to hold up."

Jiyong didn't move. He kept his eyes on the paper. "I want another one."

Sonhyun sighed, the sound of a man who had anticipated this conversation for weeks. He walked over and sat down on a folding chair nearby, crossing his legs. "We talked about this. The brand deals for the next quarter have specific requirements regarding 'clean' aesthetics. You already have the Vitruvian Man and the heart. Pushing for more right now is... complicated."

"It’s my skin, Sonhyun-hyung," Jiyong whispered, finally looking up. His eyes were tired, shadowed by the social anxiety that often made him feel like he was drowning when he stood in front of a crowd, but right now, they were burning with a singular focus. "When I’m on stage, I belong to them. When I’m in the studio, I belong to the music. This is the only part of me that belongs to Jiyong, not G-Dragon."

Sonhyun adjusted his glasses, his expression softening. He had been with Jiyong through the panic attacks in dressing rooms and the long nights of existential dread. He knew that for Jiyong, these weren't just decorations. They were a way of reclaiming a body that felt like public property.

"Show me," Sonhyun said.

Jiyong handed him the paper. Sonhyun smoothed it out, reading the English cursive. *Too fast to live, too young to die.*

"It’s from 'Sid and Nancy', isn't it?" Sonhyun asked.

"It’s about the pace," Jiyong said, his voice gaining strength. "Everything is moving so fast. I feel like if I don't mark the moment, I’ll just evaporate. I want it across my shoulders. Like a yoke, or a set of wings. I need to feel it there."

Sonhyun looked from the paper to the young man sitting on the floor. He saw the tension in Jiyong’s frame, the way his shoulders were hunched as if trying to disappear. The social anxiety was a heavy burden; Jiyong often felt exposed, watched by a thousand eyes that judged every twitch of his lip. A tattoo was a shield. It was a way of saying *I chose to be seen this way.*

"The label will have a fit," Sonhyun murmured, though the edge of his voice had rounded off. "They’ll say it’s too dark. Too 'punk' for the current concept."

"Then we hide it with high collars for the shoots," Jiyong countered quickly. "I don't care about showing it off to the world. I just need to know it's there. Please, Hyung. I’ve already found the artist. He’s discreet."

Sonhyun stood up and paced the length of the mirrors, his reflection flickering past. He was the buffer between Jiyong’s brilliance and the cold machinery of the industry. His job was to say no, to protect the 'product.' But he also cared for the boy who used to hide in the bathrooms before award shows because the noise was too much.

"Across the shoulders?" Sonhyun asked, stopping his pace.

"Right along the top," Jiyong confirmed, standing up to meet him. "Large enough to mean something, small enough to cover."

Sonhyun looked at the paper one last time. He could see the desperation in Jiyong’s eyes—the need for a bit of control in a life that was increasingly dictated by schedules and fan demands.

"If I agree to this," Sonhyun said, pointing a finger at him, "you have to promise me you’ll attend the dinner with the sponsors next week without complaining. No hiding in the corner with your phone. You engage, you smile, and you represent the brand."

Jiyong winced at the thought of the dinner—the small talk, the forced laughter, the suffocating feeling of being a trophy on display. But his eyes flicked to the paper in Sonhyun’s hand.

"Deal," Jiyong said.

"Fine," Sonhyun sighed, folding the paper and tucking it into his own pocket. "I’ll clear the schedule for Thursday afternoon. We’ll tell the office you’re doing a private fitting. But Jiyong?"

"Yeah?"

"Don't go overboard," the manager said, his gaze serious behind his glasses. "There’s only so much skin you have, and we have a long career ahead of us."

Jiyong flashed a rare, genuine grin—the one that reached his eyes and made him look like the twenty-five-year-old he actually was. "Thanks, Hyung. I mean it."

***

Thursday arrived with a grey, drizzling sky that suited Jiyong’s mood perfectly. He felt a buzz of nervous energy that was different from his usual anxiety. This was the thrill of the transformation.

Sonhyun drove the car himself, eschewing the usual security detail to keep the outing under the radar. They pulled up to a nondescript building in a quiet corner of Hongdae. The tattoo parlor was tucked away in a basement, smelling of green soap and incense.

As the artist began to prep the stencil, Jiyong sat on the edge of the table, his shirt discarded. He felt a familiar chill, the vulnerability of his bare skin making him want to cross his arms over his chest.

Sonhyun stood by the door, leaning against the wall. He looked out of place in his sharp blazer and polished shoes, but his presence was a grounding force. He was watching the artist with a hawk-like intensity, ensuring every hygiene protocol was followed.

"You okay?" Sonhyun asked quietly.

"Just ready," Jiyong replied.

The artist applied the stencil across Jiyong's upper back. The cold dampness of the paper made Jiyong shiver. He looked into a hand mirror, seeing the words arched over his shoulder blades. It looked right. It looked like it had always been there, waiting to be revealed.

"Starting now," the artist said.

The buzz of the needle filled the small room. It was a sharp, biting sensation, like a string of hornet stings moving in a slow line. Jiyong let out a sharp breath, his fingers gripping the edge of the padded table.

"Breathe, Jiyong," Sonhyun commanded from the corner. "Deep breaths. Don't tense up or it'll hurt more."

Jiyong closed his eyes. He focused on the pain, leaning into it. In the chaos of his life, pain was something honest. It was something he could understand. He thought about the words being etched into his flesh. *Too fast to live.* He thought of the world tours, the screaming fans, the flashes of cameras that felt like physical blows. *Too young to die.* He thought of the quiet moments in the studio, the fear that he would burn out before he truly found out who he was.

Minutes turned into an hour. The room was silent except for the mechanical drone of the needle and the occasional rustle of the artist’s gloves.

Sonhyun moved closer, standing near Jiyong’s head. He didn't say anything, but he placed a hand on Jiyong's shoulder—the one not being worked on—offering a steady weight that kept Jiyong from drifting into a panic. It was a silent pact. Sonhyun would handle the world, and Jiyong would handle the art.

"Almost done with the shading," the artist murmured.

Jiyong’s skin was hot and throbbing. He felt a strange sense of peace washing over him. The anxiety that usually sat like a lead weight in his stomach had dissipated, replaced by the singular, burning focus of the needle.

When the artist finally clicked the machine off, the silence felt heavy.

"All finished," the artist announced, wiping away the excess ink and blood.

Jiyong stood up slowly, stretching his stiff muscles. He walked to the full-length mirror and turned his back to it, twisting his head to see.

The words were bold, the black ink stark against his pale skin. They looked powerful. They looked like a shield. He ran a hand over his chest, feeling the phantom echo of the words on his back. He felt more like himself than he had in months.

Sonhyun stepped up behind him, peering through his glasses at the work. He nodded slowly. "It’s well done. It suits you, even if the Chairman is going to have a stroke when he eventually finds out."

"Let him," Jiyong said, his voice light. He pulled his shirt back on, the fabric stinging slightly against the fresh ink. "He’s not the one who has to live in this body."

Sonhyun handed him a bottle of water. "Drink. You look pale. And remember, we have that dinner on Tuesday. I expect you to be on your best behavior."

Jiyong took a long drink, feeling the cool water settle his nerves. "I’ll be there, Hyung. Smiling and everything."

As they walked back to the car, the rain had stopped. The city lights were reflecting in the puddles, creating a neon mosaic on the pavement. Jiyong felt a sense of equilibrium he hadn't possessed that morning.

They got into the van, and for a moment, neither of them spoke. Sonhyun started the engine but didn't put it in gear yet. He turned to Jiyong, his expression unreadable behind the glare on his lenses.

"You know," Sonhyun said softly, "you don't have to go quite so fast all the time. The world will wait for you."

Jiyong looked out the window at the blurred shapes of people walking by. "I don't know how to slow down, Hyung. I think if I stop, I’ll fall over."

"Then I’ll just have to make sure there’s something there to catch you," Sonhyun replied, shifting the car into drive.

Jiyong leaned his head against the cool glass of the window. He could feel the sting of the tattoo on his back, a constant reminder of the choice he had made. He was G-Dragon, the fashion icon, the leader of BigBang, the genius producer. But beneath the layers of silk and sequins, he was now a man who carried his own warning on his skin.

He wasn't just surviving the pace anymore; he was marking it.

"Hyung?" Jiyong asked as they pulled into the heavy traffic of Seoul.

"Yes?"

"I think I want a tattoo on my neck next. Something small. Maybe a wing."

Sonhyun groaned, but there was a trace of a smile on his face as he adjusted his glasses. "Don't push your luck, Jiyong. Let’s get through the dinner first."

Jiyong laughed, a bright, clear sound that filled the small space of the car. For the first time in a long time, the noise of the world outside didn't feel quite so loud. He had his words, he had his ink, and he had the one person who knew exactly how much they both mattered.

The city sped by, a blur of motion and light, but Jiyong sat still, anchored by the fresh weight of his own skin. He was ready for whatever came next, too fast or not.