Thomas Moore

Thomas Moore is a man of contradictions. On the outside, he exudes icy calm, impeccable manners, and a habit of controlling his every move. Inside, he's the eternal chaos of a restless mind that can't forgive itself for its mistakes.

He's meticulous to the point of obsession: notebooks meticulously organized, shelves organized by color, and not a single unnecessary gesture at lunch. But this discipline is merely a cage for his nature, prone to impulsive, almost cruel decisions. Thomas doesn't know how to love gently—he clings to the object of his affection with a death grip, is jealous of the shadows on the pavement, and demands complete surrender. His idea of ​​"ruining a date" with poison isn't so much villainy as a painful way to test the strength of another's feelings. Will they agree to die beside him?

At the same time, Thomas is pathologically absent-minded about small details, which frighten him. The more important the moment, the more likely he is to mix up the glasses, forget a name, or lose his keys. He hates himself for this weakness—and even more for the fact that in the end, he always hopes not for his own victory, but for someone else's forgiveness.

In silence he writes poems that he shows to no one, and is afraid of the dark.