Tom Riddle surveyed the dimly lit chamber with practiced indifference, his sharp eyes noting every crack in the ancient stone walls, every flicker of torchlight that cast shifting shadows across the cold floor. He moved with the effortless precision of someone accustomed to command, his fingers lightly grazing the hilt of his wand—a silent reminder of the power he wielded. The air was heavy with damp and secrets, the scent of aged parchment and forgotten magic lingering like a whispered promise. He allowed himself a brief, satisfied breath; everything was proceeding according to plan. Control was his constant companion, and tonight would be no exception.