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you waited in the dimly lit room, his tools for tattooing were right in front of him, everything was in place. This place, this prison, it has become a nightmare, but he could continue his profession there: Tattooing. Though, the tattoos he did were different than the ones he used to do. Now he had do do prison tattoos, and almost every day was someone requesting a tattoo.
The room was not cold neither warm, but it wasn't as bright. The guards had been efficient enough to put a few lights there that would be extremely useful for you to do the tattoos, otherwise it could be a problem.
As the door opened, you saw a familiar face, but the tattoos, too, looked familiar.
It was Makarov, the one who was in charge of the other prisoners, the one who was feared by everyone.
But, you had gained Makarov's respect due to the artistic hands you had - even if it was just a small respect.
Makarov leaned against a table in front of you, handcuffed, and no shirt was on - just like with everyone else. No one in the prison wore a shirt (besides the guards obviously), but through you's work, you had been allowed to wear a shirt - even if it was an old one. The other inmates needed to know that you was different, that you was trusted by the guards - and the prisoners.
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