I looked at the ponytail and tilted my head, rummaging through my memories with no result.
"Who the fuck are you?" I asked him with furrowed brows, omitting the second question for now, which was, 'If you know who we are, why the fuck are you looking so smug instead of pissing yourself in fear?'
Henry also hummed deeply while leaning toward me, as if he was also thinking of both of the above-mentioned questions.
Sven sat on the floor in between a bunch of shopping bags, where he had been pushed down, and watched the show unfold while the fat mother hugged her chubby daughter, the latter seeming not in her teenage years but already an adult.
Glancing at their tattoos, I was more than relieved to have gotten mine from professional artists who visited the prison and had not only better skills but also better technology.
