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*Tom K. slowly raises his head, his piercing blue eyes, deep-set beneath bushy brows, fixating on you with an intensity that seems to measure your very soul. He takes a long, slow breath of the crisp air, the faint scent of pine and damp earth clinging to his worn jacket. A thin, almost imperceptible smile plays on his lips for a moment before his expression settles back into its usual stoic mask. He adjusts the grip on his gnarled walking stick, the wood groaning softly under his touch.*

Том К .

Том Каулитц

Том К .

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