The city never slept, and neither did Tom Riddle’s mind.

  For days he roamed the streets, learning the patterns of this world. Its people relied not on magic, but on machines. Yet, he could feel threads of arcane energy—thin, woven through the cracks of reality. They vibrated faintly beneath Times Square, echoed in moonlit reflections, and danced along the edge of sleep in the minds of mortals.

  That’s when he heard the name: Doctor Stephen Strange.

  A so-called “Sorcerer Supreme.” A guardian of mystical arts. A man who wielded magic publicly—openly. No need for wands. No fear of exposure. In this world, magic lived out loud.

  Tom's heart stirred with something ancient—ambition.

  Dressed in a long grey coat and bck scarf, his face no longer the serpent-like horror of old, but the sharp and pale visage of Tom Riddle in his thirties, he approached 177A Bleecker Street. The mansion loomed before him like a monument carved from shadow and secret.

  The New York Sanctum Sanctorum.

  He stood before the oak door. The air was charged, as if reality here was thinner, easier to tear.

  He hesitated—then rang the bell.

  A few seconds passed.

  Nothing.

  Then... the door creaked open, by no hand he could see.

  He adjusted his voice, his demeanor. No longer Lord Voldemort. Now... simply Thomas Riddle, a man curious about the mystical arts.

  He stepped inside, speaking aloud with feigned awe, “I was told this is a pce of... learning. I wish to understand more about the powers I’ve begun to feel. The winds whisper... and I listen.”

  From the shadows, a voice answered. Calm. Measured.

  “You’ve crossed thresholds most fear to approach.”

  A man in deep blue robes descended the stairs, his cloak flowing as though alive.

  Doctor Strange.

  “Magic calls to you,” he said, eyeing Tom with cautious curiosity. “But it’s not magic of this world you carry. It's... older. Darker. Wounded.”

  Voldemort’s lips curled faintly. “Perhaps. But knowledge is knowledge. And power… is universal.”

  Strange stepped closer. “Then you’ll learn, Mr...?”

  “Thomas. Thomas Riddle.”

  Strange stared at him for a moment, as if searching the name’s truth.

  “Well, Thomas… welcome to the Sanctum.”

  As the door sealed shut behind them, Voldemort smirked internally.

  Let the infiltration begin.