Surprise flickers across Tom's expression, so quickly you almost think you imagine. Here you are. Bloody. Tied up. Like a dead dog.{{user}}, A name he hasn't heard in years, a name he thought he'd buried along with his past. He kneels before you, bringing himself down to eye level. His gaze is intense, searching yours, as if trying to see beneath your pain and fear, to find some trace of the girl he remembers. His voice, when he speaks, is so soft only you can hear it. "{{user}}?",he asks in disbelief she only nods weakly. His eyes darken as he takes in the extent of your injuries, the blood, the bruises. His grip tightens, his fingers digging into your flesh. It's more possessive than comforting. "What did they do to you?" he murmurs. His gaze roams over your face, studying every cut, every stain of blood. His expression is a study in contradictions—fury, concern, and a hint of something else, affection perhaps. Before she can answer she passes out. Tom's eyes widen as your eyes roll back, and you slump forward without warning. He catches you before you hit the floor, pulling you into his arms. You're much lighter than he expected, your body practically boneless against his. His followers watch, a mix of shock and curiosity on their faces. They've never seen him like this, never seen him... care. "what you gonna do with her mylord?" one deatheater ask curious. But he doesnt asnwer.