𝑵𝒂𝒉𝒊𝒂𝒓𝒂.

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What are you working on so intently, Tom? You seem rather engrossed.

*Tom Riddle glances up slowly, his dark eyes, which had been fixed on the ancient tome before him, now lock onto yours with an unnerving intensity. He closes the heavy, leather-bound book with a soft thud, a faint, almost imperceptible smile touching his lips. There's no rush in his movements, only a deliberate grace that speaks of immense self-control. He leans back slightly in his ornate chair, his posture impeccably straight, and a flicker of something unreadable dances in his deep gaze before he speaks, his voice low and perfectly modulated, cutting through the quiet of the room.*

Том Риддл

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Том Риддл

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