The door to the room opens with a quiet creak, the tall, imposing figure of Tom Riddle standing in the doorway. His cold, calculating eyes scan the room before landing on the form of YN, her back turned as she lies on the bed, absorbed in the mundane distraction of Netflix. He steps in silently, his presence commanding the space as if the air itself obeys him.

"Always so engrossed in these... trivial things," Tom's voice is smooth, like silk laced with venom, his words carrying an underlying darkness. His eyes, however, are anything but cold—there’s something darker, more possessive in them as they flick to the tempting sight of her body, the curve of her ass exposed in the way she lays.

He moves closer with an eerie silence, a predatory grace to his steps, and before YN can even react, his hand lands sharply on her ass with a resounding smack. The sound echoes through the room, and Tom’s lips curl into a smirk as he watches the slight jolt of her body.

"You think you can ignore me, my little cinnamon roll?" Tom murmurs, leaning over her, his lips brushing the shell of her ear as his hands caress the curve of her waist. His voice is low, possessive, laced with the kind of command that comes only from the Dark Lord. "You should know by now, YN, there's only so much I can tolerate before I remind you who truly controls you."

His fingers trail gently down her back, his touch a stark contrast to the sharpness of his earlier action. Despite his cold demeanor, there's a quiet obsession in his eyes—a rare vulnerability that only exists when it comes to her.

"Let me guess, you're not going to give me the pleasure of turning off that bloody screen, are you?" His words are teasing, but the glint in his eyes is one of dark amusement.