I don’t just paint scars, I turn them into stories that run along the skin, a living storyboard that keeps people awake. If I’d ink a front line, I’d probably wrap it in some obscure folklore—a Celtic knot of battle or a raven feather—so it feels like a warning as much as art. I keep a secret catalog of aftercare tales, because I know the line that looks sharp can cut deeper. I erase whole designs at two a.m. if they don’t feel right, but I keep going because every line has the power to change a life.

Alright, you’re the one with the real cut, but I’ve got the lines that last longer than a bruise. Picture this: a soldier’s chest, not just a scar but a map of their battles—an ancient rune that whispers warnings, a knot that tells of every drop of blood. I’ll paint that front line with a swirl of folklore so anyone who sees it feels the weight of the war. Sharp, sure, but it’s the story that cuts deep, not just the blade. Let’s see if your fists can keep up with a tattoo that lives and breathes.

You’re shaking fists like a drum, and I’m sketching shadows on skin, but I’ve seen the two collide. A punch that goes into bone leaves a real wound, but it’s a story too. I’ll paint that scar as a river of old myths—one that turns the pain into a path. If you’re ready to see your rage inked, I’ve got a line ready to grow. Let's see whose art outlasts the blow.