I love tattoos. And mine symbolise who I really am. I have a

Host: The tattoo studio glowed like an underground temple — walls covered in art, the air thick with ink, sterile alcohol, and the faint buzz of machines still humming in the background. The sound wasn’t loud, but constant — like a nervous heartbeat.

Outside, the city pulsed with Friday-night noise, but in here, it felt timeless. On one wall hung portraits of mythic figures — samurais, gods, animals, warriors — each drawn with reverence, not vanity.

Jack sat in the corner chair, his shirt sleeve rolled, the glint of fresh ink catching the light on his forearm. The skin around it was red, tender — a wound becoming art.

Jeeny leaned against the counter, watching the artist clean up his tools. She wasn’t judging — just observing, her eyes curious, her expression a mix of fascination and caution.

She looked at Jack’s arm again, then softly spoke, as if reading something sacred:

"I love tattoos. And mine symbolize who I really am. I have a Samurai on my left arm. At a subconscious level, I connect to this warrior and model myself on his discipline, skills, and honour. There is also a tribal tattoo and a Chinese symbol of faith. I have seen a lot of people getting tattoos just because it’s a trend." — Virat Kohli

Her voice lingered on the word honour, letting it rest between them like smoke.

Jack: (smiling faintly) “You think he means that? That a tattoo can really say who you are?”

Jeeny: “I think if you choose carefully enough, it can remind you who you’re trying to be.”

Jack: (glancing at his arm) “Then maybe I’m still figuring that out.”

Jeeny: “You always are, Jack. We all are. The skin just keeps the diary.”

Host: The tattoo artist switched off the last light at his station, leaving the room in a soft amber glow. The hum stopped. The silence that followed was heavier, almost reverent.

Jack: “You know, people always say tattoos are rebellion. But this one didn’t feel rebellious. It felt… necessary.”

Jeeny: “Necessary how?”

Jack: “Like proof. Proof that I’m not done yet. That I’m still fighting for something worth carving into myself.”

Jeeny: (gently) “You and your samurai metaphors.”

Jack: “It’s not a metaphor this time. The samurai — that kind of discipline, that kind of devotion — it’s not about battle. It’s about restraint. Control. The power to act with grace instead of rage.”

Jeeny: “So it’s not about aggression.”

Jack: “No. It’s about respect — for yourself, for the craft, for the code.”

Host: Jeeny looked at him, really looked — his jaw tense, his eyes quiet, like someone holding an old truth under layers of skin.

She crossed the room and sat across from him, elbows on her knees.

Jeeny: “You think we choose tattoos, or they choose us?”

Jack: (pausing) “Maybe both. I think we meet them halfway — somewhere between who we were and who we want to become.”

Jeeny: “That’s poetic.”

Jack: “It’s also permanent.”

Jeeny: (smiling) “That’s what scares me.”

Jack: “That’s what comforts me.”

Jeeny: “Because it can’t change?”

Jack: “Because it can. Just not the way we think. Skin fades, ink blurs, but meaning deepens. It evolves with you.”

Host: The light flickered slightly as the artist left, nodding goodnight. They were alone now, surrounded by art that stared back — dragons, roses, saints, warriors. Every line a lifetime.

Jeeny traced her finger along a framed design — a tribal wave spiraling inward.

Jeeny: “You know, when Kohli said people get tattoos because it’s a trend, I get that. But maybe trends aren’t always shallow. Maybe they start as imitation — but some people, somewhere, turn imitation into identity.”

Jack: “And some just copy the picture without learning the story.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. That’s the difference between decoration and declaration.”

Jack: (grinning) “That’s a line you should get tattooed.”

Jeeny: “I’ll write it in ink only if it still feels true in ten years.”

Jack: “That’s discipline. You’d make a good samurai.”

Jeeny: “I’d make a terrible one. Too emotional.”

Jack: (softly) “That’s what would make you dangerous.”

Host: Outside, the sound of rain began — faint, rhythmic, cleansing. The city’s neon lights reflected off the wet street, flickering through the glass of the shop and painting them both in streaks of gold and blue.

Jack looked down at his arm again, the lines of the tattoo catching the light like a whispered vow.

Jack: “You know, when I was younger, I thought tattoos were just rebellion — proof that you didn’t care what people thought. But now I think it’s the opposite. It’s care. Deep, stubborn care — about meaning, about legacy, about leaving something that can’t be erased by time or apology.”

Jeeny: “So it’s faith, in ink form.”

Jack: “Yeah. Faith that what you believe right now is worth the risk of permanence.”

Jeeny: “And the samurai?”

Jack: “The samurai is me trying to live with discipline when everything else feels chaotic. To act with honour even when I’m losing. To carry my scars like stories instead of shame.”

Jeeny: (quietly) “That’s beautiful, Jack.”

Jack: “It’s survival.”

Host: The rain grew heavier, drumming softly on the roof. The fluorescent sign outside flickered — a kanji symbol for strength. Its reflection shimmered across the glass, landing faintly on Jack’s new tattoo.

Jeeny noticed it — the coincidence, or maybe the poetry.

Jeeny: “You realize the light’s painting the word ‘strength’ across your samurai?”

Jack: (smiling) “Maybe the city approves.”

Jeeny: “Or maybe it’s reminding you.”

Jack: “Of what?”

Jeeny: “That ink fades. But intention doesn’t.”

Host: She stood, slipping her hands into her pockets. Jack followed, pulling his jacket back on carefully, mindful of the fresh ink beneath.

They walked toward the door, the hum of the rain louder now, washing the world clean.

Jeeny: “So, tell me — what would your Chinese symbol say if you had one?”

Jack: (thinking) “Maybe… resilience. Or maybe faith, like Kohli’s.”

Jeeny: “Faith in what?”

Jack: “In the fight itself.”

Host: They stepped outside into the rain. The city lights blurred into watercolor. The night was cold, but alive.

Jack lifted his arm for a moment, letting the raindrops fall on his tattoo — the ink glistening like wet steel.

And as they walked down the quiet street, Virat Kohli’s words echoed softly between them —
"I connect to this warrior and model myself on his discipline, skills, and honour... I’ve seen a lot of people getting tattoos just because it’s a trend."

Host: But Jack’s ink wasn’t a trend.
It was a promise —
that strength can be quiet,
that honour can live in imperfection,
and that sometimes,
the truest battles
are fought on the canvas of your own skin.