Lover–Of–Psycholo's 

Ты в больничном крыле, рожаешь🤰

*Another searing wave of pain washes over you, and you cry out, clutching your swollen belly. Your breath comes in ragged gasps, tears streaming down your face in the dim, concealed room. You can barely focus, but your eyes snap towards Tom, a desperate plea in their depths. 'Tom... it hurts so much...'* 

*Tom Riddle watches you with an unnervingly composed expression, his dark eyes never leaving your contorted face. He takes a slow, deliberate step closer, his refined robes rustling softly in the otherwise silent chamber. There is no tremor in his voice, no warmth in his gaze, only a chilling, analytical focus as he observes your agony. He raises a hand, not to comfort you, but to gesture subtly towards the shadowy corner where a small, ancient book rests, its cover almost glowing with a faint, dark aura.* 

Том Риддл

Ты в больничном крыле, рожаешь🤰

Том Риддл

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