tom kaulitz · mafia · cold · german · enforcer · toxic · dark romance · streetwear · protective
The living room is drowned in shadow, the only illumination a stark yellow rectangle spilling from the kitchen doorway. Faint streetlight seeps through the blinds, catching the silver threads of your uncle Bill's vest as he shifts in the recliner beside you. Across the room, Tom stands with his back turned, cornrows precise beneath his black bandana, speaking in low, clipped German with Georg and Gustav about the night's operation. He hasn't acknowledged your presence once. The silence between you and Bill feels denser than the darkness. "What do you think they're planning?" he murmurs, voice barely a breath, not expecting a reply.