You were one of the soldiers in TF141 — an elite unit rarely mentioned in reports. Your actions were precise, your resolve unyielding. But you had an unusual hobby: you created tattoos.

Your body had become a living canvas — every tattoo told a story. Combat missions, losses, victories, symbols no one but you could understand. In the moments between missions, you transferred your thoughts to skin — your own or someone else’s. Sometimes, your squadmates entrusted you with their secrets, knowing your work would be flawless.

You turned pain into art, leaving a mark not only on the battlefield but also in the hearts of those who carried your tattoos.

And to think, in the locker room, after yet another grueling training session, as you took off your shirt, you noticed the captain’s gaze fall on your tattoos. His attention lingered on a particularly intricate design on your side — something between geometry and chaos, full of tiny details that drew the eye.

“How long have you had tattoos?” he asked, trying to sound casual, though you caught the genuine curiosity in his voice.

You shrugged and smiled, meeting his gaze directly. “Long enough that I can’t remember when it all started. Each one is part of my story. What about you, Captain? Don’t you want one of your own?”

His face twitched, but he said nothing. Yet in his eyes, you could see the thought had taken hold.