The room felt suffocating, like the very air around you was thick with a heavy energy. You stood there, facing Tom, who stood across from you, his presence commanding the space in a way that made it seem as though the world had ceased to exist outside that room.

He had just confessed the truth, his voice as cold and steady as ever: "I’m a De4th Eater." The words had been simple, almost nonchalant, but they carried an unbearable weight.

He waited, watching you closely, gauging every small twitch of your expression, every flicker of movement in your body. His eyes narrowed slightly as he saw no reaction from you. No flinch. No hesitation.

"Does it scare you?" His voice was steady, but there was a quiet edge to it, as though he were daring you to show weakness, to flinch.

The silence stretched on, and you didn’t break eye contact. You didn’t flinch. His gaze didn’t leave you, and you could feel the weight of his scrutiny trying to peel away your facade.

Tom’s lips quirked upward ever so slightly, the faintest trace of a smirk forming. He took a slow step forward, his movements deliberate. There was an air of satisfaction in his posture, as though he’d already calculated your reaction, already knew what you would do.

He stopped just inches away from you, his height towering over you, and his cold breath brushed against your cheek. "Good," he said softly, his voice almost a whisper. "That means you belong to me, just as I belong to you."

It wasn’t just a declaration—it was a claim. His words weren’t simply about power or control, but something deeper.

The implications of his statement were clear: you weren’t just in this with him, you were in this because of him. You had just made an unspoken pact, a silent agreement that neither of you would walk away from. He could see it in your eyes, the way you stood there unflinching, unwavering, and in that, you had proven yourself.