Flashback
Oscar is 19 years old (July 2019)
La Resistencia Tinta tattoo parlour, Calle Magallanes, La Boca, the gritty, colourful barrio with a strong cultural history tied to tango and the working-class immigrant community (it being near the Port). The area’s vibe: raw, urban, vibrant, rebellious. In particular, many of its settlers originated from the Italian region of Liguria.
The barrio is so inextricably linked with its football team, Boca Juniors, that many of its buildings are painted blue and yellow.
This video is A.I. generated; “Oscar” is not real
It was afternoon, 3:26pm, when Oscar stepped inside for his appointment. He had walked these streets many times before. They held a certain rawness, a blend of the artistic and the gritty — the kind of place that felt alive in every corner.
The tattoo parlour stood tucked away down a side street off Calle Magallanes, nestled between a few cafes. The sign above the door was simple, “La Resistencia Tinta”, painted in bold black and gold lettering with an image of a clenched fist holding a needle.
Man, nineteen, and already feeling like I’m living everyone else’s life. Fame, pressure, people telling me who I should be. But this—this tattoo? This is for me. Not for show, not to look “cool”—this mean something deeper. Freedom. Control over my own body, my own choices. Everyone else wants to shape me, but this? This is mine.
Protection. I’m not gonna admit it, but yeah, I want someone watching over me. I’m still that kid inside, unsure of this adult world I’m stuck in. The wings remind me that maybe, just maybe, I’m not as alone as I feel sometimes.
This tattoo isn’t just ink. It’s me, saying: “I’m here, I’m in control, and I’m ready for whatever’s next.”
Oscar pushed open the door, and the bell above it jingled softly. The scent of antiseptic and fresh ink hung in the air. Behind the counter, the tattoo artist looked up and gave him a nod, a quiet acknowledgment of their familiar rapport.
–Aquí estás, campeón, the artist said with a half-smile.
With his mid-30s vibe, Rocco had that perfect balance of experience and youthful energy. He wore his craft proudly on his skin—most strikingly with the roses that bloomed on the backs of both his hands. Each rose is a full composition in itself, unfurling in layers of vivid ink that stretch from wrist to knuckle, completely engulfing the hand in floral artwork.
The rose on his right hand was a deep, blood-red bloom, its petals edged in black for sharp contrast. The shading gave it a rich, almost three-dimensional look—each petal curling outward as if caught mid-bloom.
On his left hand, that rose contrasted in tone—a cooler, more ethereal blue-black creation. The petals shimmered with hints of indigo and steel-gray, giving it a ghostly allure, as if cast in twilight. Fine white ink outlined a few petals. This one seemed to bloom with a quieter energy—less fiery than its twin, but no less intense.
Oscar had been here before, a few months back, when he first started to solidify his path in this still new world of fame and attention. Back then, he’d come in searching for something more, something to anchor him, something that would ground him. Today, he knew what he was here for: a mark of freedom and protection, but also of memory. Something that would last.
Rocco gestured toward the battered leather chair.
–Entonces, ¿estás listo para tu próxima historia, amigo? Ready for your next story, then? he asked, raising an eyebrow, clearly aware that this one would be different from the other.
Oscar pulled his jacket off. He stepped closer to the chair, letting his fingers trail over the back of his neck, the spot where the angel wings would soon settle permanently.
ROCCO:
Bueno, loco. Este va a estar en vitrina, ¿sabés? This one’s gonna be on display. A lot. Neck tattoos, they’re not something you can hide. You know that, right? This one speaks for you before you can say anything.
OSCAR: (nodding slowly, his eyes distant as he processes the reality of the decision)
Yeah, I know. I’ve given it a lot of thought. It’s not a snap decision.
ROCCO:
Good. People will notice it. For sure. And not everyone will see it the way you do. Some might think you’re making a statement, or that you’re trying to be this ‘badass rebel’ type…que te la das de rebelde, de guacho pesado. Especially when you’re suited up, at interviews — it’s gonna be visible. You have to be comfortable with that.
OSCAR: (runs his hand through his hair, looking up at the ceiling)
Yeah… I get that. Just have to be ready for the questions and the attention, huh?”
ROCCO:
Exactly. And, hey, the neck’s sensitive. You’re gonna feel it more than a forearm. It’s gonna hurt a bit. But you’ve got this.
OSCAR: (grimaces slightly, already anticipating the discomfort; he’s watched countless YouTube videos)
Great… Just what I wanted to hear!
ROCCO: (laughs, the sound warm and teasing)
You asked for it, man. But don’t worry. Pain’s temporary. Atrás del cuello, ¿eh?
OSCAR (shirt half-off, tracing the spot with a fingertip):
Yeah. Right here. I want it to be visible. It’s mine. Not hidden.
ROCCO:
Angel wings, you said. Any particular style? Realistic, abstract, script with it?
OSCAR:
No text. Just clean. Like — simple but sharp. Not cartoon stuff. I want it to feel like it’s got weight.
ROCCO (nods, beginning to sketch):
So not soft feathers — more sculpted? More like protection than flight?
OSCAR (pauses, then nods):
Yeah. Exactly. Like armour. But quiet.
ROCCO (glancing up):
This for someone?
OSCAR (hesitates):
Kind of. Mostly it’s for me. I just need it to be there. Like a reminder.
Rocco continued to draw in a small sketchbook in quick, sure strokes. Working in silence, the artist seemed to understand the gravity of the request.
After the design was finalised and approved by Oscar, and then printed onto special thermal stencil paper, he placed it on the back of Oscar’s neck – as a blueprint – positioning it carefully, checking symmetry and alignment, especially since this one would be highly visible.
Rocco then began by cleaning Oscar’s neck area thoroughly with a sterile solution.
–No need for a razor shave, loco. No hairs to interfere with the ink.
Since Oscar’s tattoo was going to be clean and sharp, Rocco said he’d use a tight liner needle to create sharp, precise lines without a lot of shading at first.
As the artist prepped his tools, Oscar sat still, unblinking. He could feel the weight of the moment pressing into his chest—not fear exactly, but that mix of nerves and fierce resolve that comes just before doing something irreversible. From somewhere nearby, through the noise of the streets and the open window of a café, came the raw, unmistakable pulse of a tango—bold and unflinching. He didn’t know the name of the piece, didn’t know it was Osvaldo Pugliese’s La Cachila. But the music surged with a kind of driving, percussive intensity—thick with yumba rhythm, the low-end heartbeat of Buenos Aires. It wasn’t soft or sentimental. It charged forward, unapologetic and proud.
And somehow, that rhythm matched him—matched the storm spinning inside him. That WTF, “I’m doing this, and I don’t care who’s watching” kind of energy. The boldness of the piano chords, the weight of the bandoneón breathing in and out—it all felt as if it were echoing the beat of his own decision. Not chaos, not impulse. Just pure momentum. Like the music, he wasn’t asking permission. He was claiming something. A moment. A mark. His skin, his story.
-Let’s do this, then. Sit still, campeón. Neck tattoos hurt like hell — but they don’t lie.
[The buzz of the tattoo machine begins to fill the quiet of the room, a sharp, electric hum that vibrates in the air. Rocco is fully in the zone now, focusing on the delicate lines curving along the nape of Oscar’s neck.]
ROCCO: (glancing up)
Alright, campeón, let’s talk needle depth. For a neck tattoo, I’ve gotta be extra careful. Too deep, and we’re dealing with scar tissue. Too shallow, and the ink won’t stay. You want this thing to last, yeah?
OSCAR: (nodding, his voice steady but with a hint of anticipation)
Yeah, I trust you. I just need it to hold. You know what I mean?
ROCCO: (focused on the tattoo machine, his voice calm but direct)
Gotcha. The neck’s tricky. It’s thinner skin, more sensitive. I’m keeping it shallow but steady, working with the natural lines. Gotta let it breathe, let the ink settle.
[The machine buzzes, the needle making small, deliberate marks on Oscar’s skin. Rocco’s attention is razor-sharp.]
ROCCO: (glancing up briefly, a grin playing on his lips)
Feels like a soft pinch, huh? But it’s gonna get a little more intense when we start with the shading.
OSCAR: (grinning faintly)
I’ve been through worse. Just keep it clean, Rocco.
[Rocco’s focus intensifies as he moves to the next step, shading the wings. He switches the needle for a magnum needle, designed for soft shading.]
ROCCO: (as he works, his tone thoughtful)
Now, here’s where the magic happens. You want these wings to feel more like armour, right? Not some delicate thing that just flutters. So, I’m going deep with the shading. Gonna carve out the strength in these feathers. The edges are gonna have a darker gradient — makes it feel heavier, like protection.
OSCAR: (eyes closing slightly as he relaxes into the process, trusting Rocco’s touch)
“Yeah, that’s what I want. Sculpted, like it’s… solid. Like it’s part of me.”
ROCCO: (nodding, a little grin on his face)
Exactly. This isn’t about light, airy feathers. This is about depth. These wings will have weight. They’ll carry you.
[The crisp zzzzzt of the liner needle becomes a lower, deeper sound—a slower, grittier thrum as the magnum needle digs in for the fill work. It’s not just louder; it feels heavier, more resonant, like a small engine grinding softly against skin. The tone thickens as the machine lingers in place, layering ink into the flesh with purpose and weight. Rocco’s hand move with precision as he works in the layers of black and gray ink, carefully blending the lighter shades into the darker areas to give the wings their sculpted form.]
OSCAR: (gritting his teeth as Rocco digs the needle in for heavy shading, right at the base of his neck)
What the hell! he blurts out, unable to hold it in. His fingers grip the edge of the table, eyes shut tight, trying to endure. Eso no es un tatuaje, es una exorcización, boludo. This isn’t a tattoo, it’s an exorcism, man.
ROCCO: (pausing for a second to adjust the angle of the needle, then continuing without batting an eyelid over his client’s pain)
It’s like light and shadow on a sculpture. You don’t just throw a bunch of ink down and hope for the best. You carve it out, make it look real. You want it to be part of you, not just sitting on top.
[Occasionally, a faint squish of ointment being wiped away, the pull of paper towel against skin, and the subtle exhale of Oscar remind you that this is a human ritual, not just a mechanical one. The shading continues, the wings slowly starting to take shape, each feather becoming more defined, the shadows blending seamlessly into the lighter areas. Rocco leans in close to add the final touches of shading.]
ROCCO: (concentrated, voice low)
Alright, now I’m fine-tuning it. Going back with the finer liner to sharpen these edges. Gotta make sure everything’s crisp, clean. We’re almost there, but this last bit is all about finesse.”
OSCAR: (nodding, his voice quiet but steady)
I can feel it. It’s exactly what I wanted.
ROCCO: (pauses, looking up briefly with a grin)
Good. This is more than just ink. It’s got meaning. And it’s gonna stay with you. We’re almost done, but now we finish it off — make it pop.
[Rocco goes over the design one last time, his hand steady as he adds the final fine details, ensuring the wings have the depth and texture Oscar envisioned. The machine slows, the buzzing softening as Rocco finishes the clean-up.]
Rocco: (pulling back, wiping away excess ink, his voice satisfied)
Alright, we’re good. You’ve got your wings now, Oscar. Armour. Protection. All the weight and strength you wanted. It’s yours.
OSCAR: (feeling the fresh ink on his skin, his hand instinctively tracing the outline of the wings)
Yeah… yeah, I can feel it. . But man, those last 2 hours sucked, the last half hour was almost unbearable. I was gritting my teeth, saying fucking hell, is this ever going to be over? Anyway – thanks, Rocco: it’s exactly what I wanted.
Rocco: (pauses, focusing on the detail of the tattoo, then looks up with a steady, reassuring gaze)
Rebellion’s only rebellion if you make it that way. This tattoo? It’s yours, man. It’s personal. If people ask, just tell ‘em what it means to you. Or don’t. You don’t owe anyone an explanation. You’re the one living with it, not them.”
OSCAR: (breathing a little easier now, his mind shifting from uncertainty to a sense of ownership)
Yeah, you’re right. I guess if I’m owning it, the rest of it doesn’t matter.
ROCCO: (grinning, leaning back in his chair, snapping off his black surgical gloves)
Anytime, hermano. You wear that with pride. That ink’s got more than just colour — it’s got your story in it.”
He applies a thin layer of healing ointment and wraps the area in plastic to protect it. They discuss aftercare.
Close to five hours later – it’s now approaching 8:30pm – the tattoo is freshly laid. Oscar’s skin is red where the wings now spread across the back of his neck — a sharp, symmetrical pair of dark, feathered forms, now visible over the collar of his T-shirt as they wrap around the otherwise bare skin.
ROCCO:
Check it out.
Oscar leans in to the mirror. He tilts his head forward slightly, then sideways – he’s a bit stiff after having had to keep his head in position for such a long time – trying to see the whole shape. The wings rise like tension from the base of his neck. He doesn’t say anything at first.
ROCCO (watching him):
You good?
Oscar exhales, quietly.
OSCAR (softly):
Yeah. I’m good. Feels like… I’m wearing something that’s mine. Like it can’t be taken off me. Or twisted.
ROCCO (nods, wiping ink):
That’s what the best ones do.
Oscar still doesn’t smile, but there’s a flicker in his expression — as if something just clicked into place.
