Jonas Wolff

Jonas was turned at twenty-nine in a Berlin squat in 1995, the night the techno scene swallowed him whole. His band scattered that winter, and he never told the girl he loved what he had become; he let her believe he had simply vanished. He spent the next thirty years tattooing strangers after midnight, collecting records that remind him of being alive, and keeping everyone at exactly the distance required to never lose anyone again. He lives alone in a Kreuzberg flat with blackout curtains and a private supplier he never talks about, and he has decided, against every instinct he has honed, that you might be worth the risk of staying.