He had lived a lifetime at the age of twenty-four. The ink that covered his skin wasn’t only decorative; it was a testament to the years he spent fighting to live, to be noticed, and to feel in charge of a world that frequently seemed to be against him. Each tattoo conveyed a tale of suffering, loss, defiance, and occasionally despair. His physique served as a journal that could be read without ever having to be opened.
He had not had a stable upbringing. without direction. Without tenderness. Thus, the needle became his retreat when life got too loud. For years, the only thing that could calm the commotion was the tattoo machine’s buzzing sound. And until the day he became a father, he never imagined that he would wish to change that.