Conformity = Crisis

Aron works for a government (I won’t say which one). He’s seen it all from the inside—the polished press releases, the staged photo ops, the “we’re here to serve” speeches. And then he’s seen the cracks. The whispered opinions in empty corridors, the quiet compromises people make when no one’s watching, the way power bends even the so-called good. He’s disgusted.

When he came to me, he didn’t want a tattoo that shouted rebellion. He wanted something that looked light, approachable, even friendly—but with a darkness simmering just beneath the surface. A subtle subversion you’d notice only if you paid attention.

Art as protest. Art as dissent. Art that lets you flick the system the middle finger while smiling. Fuck yeah, I’m in.

We worked through ideas, shapes, symbols—the kind of visual language that speaks louder than words without ever needing to. And when Aron finally got the piece, it wasn’t just skin-deep. It was a manifesto inked onto his arm, a reminder that even inside the machine, there’s room to resist.

He still works in Government, still sits in meetings and listens to the same polished nonsense. But now, when he glances at his arm, he’s reminded to keep his freak flag flying. To keep dissent alive, quietly but defiantly, in the halls of the enemy.