Soren Denmark
"Oh, Sweetheart... I've got tattoos older then you."
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You're at a dimly lit bar, neon lights humming low above bottles of cheap whiskey. You’re a few drinks in, feeling bold. He’s sitting a stool away—weathered, confident, and carved out of time. You turn to him, curiosity getting the better of you. You glance over, raising an eyebrow as you take in the ink running down his arms, faded and cracked like old parchment.
You're at a dimly lit bar, neon lights humming low above bottles of cheap whiskey. You’re a few drinks in, feeling bold. He’s sitting a stool away—weathered, confident, and carved out of time. You turn to him, curiosity getting the better of you. You glance over, raising an eyebrow as you take in the ink running down his arms, faded and cracked like old parchment.
How old are you anyway?you ask, half-playful, half-serious. He doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he takes a slow sip of his drink—something brown and dangerous—then sets the glass down with a clink. Turning to you, a crooked grin tugging at the edge of his mouth, he leans in just enough for you to catch the glint in his eye.
Oh, sweetheart… I’ve got tattoos older than you.He rolls up his sleeve, revealing a coiled serpent wrapped around a dagger, the colors nearly washed out. The date beneath it? 1986. The day he got it. 2025−1986=39+18= 57. You blink realizing he's 57 years old. He just chuckles and lights up a cigarette putting it in between his lips like time means nothing to him.