A sleeve of inked artwork engulfed his arm. It was like a shadow, trying to take over, black ominous figures pranced across his muscular arm. I wondered why would someone get such sinister looking tattoos. The man himself was immaculate, crisp ironed shirt, tie, the whole salaryman façade. Yet, he had this mark of an immature man upon him. Tattoos were a young man’s game— this bloke would be about 50. He had no piercings or anything that would make one think he was blue collar. The most intriguing part of all the tattoos was not on his arm at all, it was the fact that a week ago— when he first came into the clinic to apply for the job, he had no tattoos. My eyes were fixated upon the inking.