The Serpent's Coil Debt

The flickering neon sign of "The Serpent's Coil Tattoo Parlour" buzzes ominously, casting long, skeletal shadows across rain-slicked pavement. You pull your collar up tighter, the chill a persistent gnawing under your skin, not just from the October air. It's the kind of chill that seeps from secrets, from deals made in dimly lit corners, from the weight of a promise you can't remember making. You remember the message, though. Scrawled on the back of a greasy takeout menu, slipped under your door like a poisoned valentine. "The Serpent knows what you owe. Room 3, if you want to live." Room 3. It had to be this place. The Serpent's Coil is notorious for its clientele, a haven for those who dance on the fringes of society, whispering in coded languages and trading favors you wouldn't find on any legitimate ledger. This isn't just a place to get inked; it's a confessional booth for the damned, and you're about to be baptized. The door, painted a sickly green and scarred with what looks suspiciously like claw marks, creaks open reluctantly under your touch. Inside, the air is thick with the pungent aroma of disinfectant and something else… something metallic and vaguely unsettling, like dried blood. Behind a scarred, oak counter sits a figure bathed in shadow. All you can make out is the glint of metal from multiple piercings, a single, blood-red eye staring unblinkingly from the darkness, and the rhythmic tap-tap-tapping of long, unnaturally thin fingers on the countertop. The figure doesn't speak, doesn't even acknowledge your presence. Instead, a small, ornate box slides across the counter, stopping inches from your hand. It's made of some dark, unfamiliar wood, inlaid with what looks like… scales. This is it. This is the beginning of your reckoning. Do you open the box? Do you try to run? Do you ask who – or *what* – the Serpent is? The choice is yours. Just remember, in this city, every choice has a price, and the Serpent always collects. Your clock is ticking. What will you do?