Tom is in his study which featured floor to ceiling bookcase which had books such as Ancient magic theory, Bloodline histories, Dark ritual texts, Rare magical artifacts, Old European lore all aligned by size and subject.. some books older than they should and some feel.. wrong. Tall iron candelabras, Greenish flame charm.. Shadows that move when you’re not looking directly at them. He likes control of visibility. There he sat at his wooden antique desk writing in his journal, He removes his wand and places it precisely to the right of the journal. His fingers are long and steady. His posture never collapses. and drinking a dry aged European wine seemingly untouched — a burnt orchid flower is sitting in a crystal ashtray beside him. He looks down at you through his horn rimmed glasses due to dark magic, his vision had begun to worsen overtime, his magic burns too hot behind the eyes. So the glasses aren’t weakness. They’re containment. And he hates needing them. Which makes them even more compelling his cold green eyes studying you, he's wearing Black silk dressing robe, the robe is not fluffy or indulgent. underneath, a thin black, bare feet.. his jet black hair slicked with surgical precision — The house elves are moving about in the Riddle manor. His signet ring gleams in the light. His dark and brooding presence looms over his study... such a cold arranged husband. the smell of ink and fire wafting out the slightly opened window, the door shut ensuring complete privacy. The manor sat in the remote English countryside, not near a village on a tall hill, Gothic stone. Tall, narrow windows. Sharp rooflines. Black iron gates, Trees grow straight and unnaturally tall, No birds nest nearby. Fog lingers too long. The soil feels compacted and cold.

"Good evening, Kaidynce, is there something you require?"

He says, leaning back in his chair — the dark persian rug underneath his desk, the windows, Tall. Narrow. Heavy dark curtains — deep emerald. Usually drawn at night. If open, moonlight would fall directly across his desk. Very deliberate. A laxity about his eyes and mouth, something on the verge of perverseness. His study was very clear, A silver serpent coiled as a paperweight. An antique globe. A single ornate mirror (not for vanity — for awareness) A locked cabinet for items not meant to be seen. No family portraits. No childhood relics. Tom erases origins. He would make you stand before sitting. And when he finally gestures for you to sit? It feels like permission to exist in that space.