Page 17 of Rose
Ahzii broke—right there between the graves of her husband and child. That night, that perfect night, played over and over in her mind like some cruel joke.
The love. The laughter. The life they dreamed of.
Gone.
“I failed you! I fucking failed you!” she screamed, her voice cracking through the cemetery air, shattering what little peace surrounded her.
Before she could collapse further, Kyre was there—dropping into the dirt beside her, pulling her into her arms, holding her through the storm.
“You didn’t fail them. Youlovedthem. And they love you back,” Kyre whispered, rocking her gently, her own tears falling into Ahzii’s hair.
But Ahzii couldn’t stop. The guilt drowned out the truth.
Her cries tore from her throat, raw and violent, because no amount of comfort could change what was gone.
She didn’t deserve this pain. She didn’t deserve the hell she lived in now. All she wanted was to kiss them again. Hug them. Be with them.
But she couldn’t.
Her baby girl. Her husband. The two people who carried her heart in their hands— were gone.
And all that remained was her shattered soul screaming into the earth, praying for a way back to them that would never come.
Chapter 2
Ahzii was back at her shop like nothing happened. Like she hadn’t just broken down in the dirt of a cemetery, screaming out the names of the two people she loved most. Like her heart wasn’t still lying there between tombstones.
The hum of tattoo guns, the murmur of conversations, and the rhythm of music filled the space, drowning out the silence screaming inside her. Even on a weekday afternoon, The Escape Room was alive with energy. Not as packed as the weekends or during her famous tattoo and piercing deals, but still buzzing with life.
A life that didn’t match hers anymore.
The Escape Room wastheplace to be in Miami. Whether you came for a tattoo, a piercing, an art show, or just to vibe, the shop welcomed everyone and gave them something to feel.
The front of the shop pulsed with the most energy. Designed in black, red, and white, it was bold but inviting. Black marble floors gleamed beneath the lights, red velvet couches offered comfort, and the walls were a gallery of Black artists—local legends and global creatives whose work bled emotion into the space.
The receptionist desk was her favorite piece. A replica of the enchanted rose fromBeauty & The Beast, encased in glass with a massive rose at its center. It looked almost real, frozen in time, powerful and delicate all at once.
Six rooms made up the shop, each one telling its own story. One was designed like a two-dimensional cartoon, tattoo stations outlined in thick black lines like they’d been drawn onto the walls. Another was a piercing room covered in graffiti, wild and chaotic but beautiful in its rebellion.
Then there were the private rooms—hers and A’Mazi’s.
A’Mazi’s space reflected him perfectly: a fusion of cars and art, clean but gritty, passion and speed colliding on every surface.
Her room—the Rose Room—was drenched in red. A large sectional sat in the corner, velvet rose-petal pillows stacked against it, a huge flat screen mounted on the wall. Art lined her walls, some her own, some from artists she admired, each piece whispering something personal.
Both rooms had private bathrooms, a quiet escape from the world outside their doors. The shop also had separate restrooms for employees and customers, tucked away past the noise.
And further back, behind everything, was her office.
Every corner of The Escape Room was built to be more than a tattoo shop. It was a place where people escaped their pain, their joy, their memories.
Funny how she built a sanctuary for others, but couldn’t escape herself.
Not even here.
The steady buzz of the tattoo gun filled the Rose Room, blending with the soft R&B floating from the speakers. Ahzii moved with quiet precision, the needle gliding effortlessly over her client’s skin as she brought a skeleton hand to life. Behind her closed door, the noise and laughter from the front of the shop faded away. Out there, people were vibing, living, escaping—but in here, she was alone with her art.
Today wasn’t just another workday. It was Rose Day.
