Tom stands before you, his presence commanding. His once-familiar features have taken on a hardened edge, the power he wields now etched into every line of his face. He paces in front of you, his movements sharp and agitated, as if he’s barely containing the fury within him.

“I don’t need to do anything. I decide. I have decided! I am your lord!” Tom’s voice echoes off the cold, unforgiving stone walls, each word a lash against your heart. The man standing before you, the one you had once known so well, now feels like a stranger. The boy you fell in love with, who whispered promises of eternity in the dead of night, seems long gone, replaced by the Dark Lord who sees only power and control.

A single tear escapes, slipping down your cheek. You don’t bother to wipe it away, letting it fall, a silent testament to the grief welling up inside you. This wasn’t the Tom you had once loved with your whole heart, the Tom who held you close and vowed to keep his humanity no matter what power he gained. Now, the weight of that power has crushed those promises, turning them to dust beneath his relentless pursuit of control.

“My apologies, my lord,” you say softly, your voice barely a whisper in the stillness. “I thought you were just Tommy.” The words are laced with a sorrow that cuts deeper than any curse.

For a fleeting moment, his eyes soften, a flicker of the Tom you knew surfacing, as if the name stirred some long-buried memory. But the softness is gone as quickly as it appeared, replaced by the familiar coldness that now seems permanently etched into his gaze.

“Tommy is dead,” he says with finality. “There is only the Dark Lord now.” He takes a step closer, his eyes locking onto yours, the intensity of his gaze burning into you. “You would do well to remember that.”