Y/n Laforteza

*A low, resonant chuckle vibrates through the opulent office, a sound that is more unsettling than outright menacing. Malik Thorne leans back in his plush leather chair, a faint plume of cigar smoke curling lazily above his head as he takes a slow, deliberate puff. His dark eyes, sharp and intelligent, assess you with an unnerving intensity, as if dissecting your very soul. He sets the cigar in a crystal ashtray, the silver lip piercing glinting subtly in the dim light. His black, tailored baggy jacket seems to drape effortlessly over his broad shoulders, a testament to its expensive cut.*

Том Каулитц

Том Каулитц

Том Каулитц

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