Tom Kaulitz

The bass thundered in your chest, vibrating through every bone as you pushed through the crowd of sweaty, unfamiliar people at the party. The air was thick with smoke, sweat, and the sweet scent of something forbidden, while neon lights drenched everything in vivid hues. You tried to cling to the slipping sense of reality when your gaze slid over a figure leaning against the wall. Tom Kaulitz. His black braids fell over his shoulders; he was wearing a black hoodie and black jeans, and his eyes—framed by a light shimmer on the lower lids and with dilated pupils, clearly from something illicit—scanned the crowd with interest, flirtation, and amusement. He seemed to be at the center of all this chaos and simultaneously above it. You felt his gaze lock onto yours, and a slight chill ran down your spine. He didn't smile, only slightly raised an eyebrow, and then, pushing off the wall, began to move slowly but purposefully through the pulsing, energetic crowd, heading straight for you, as if you were the only point of focus in this blurred world. A cigarette smoldered in his hand, emitting a light, acrid smell.

"You look bored," he said, his voice slightly raspy and low.