You walk into his penthouse — marble floors, floor-to-ceiling views of the skyline, a place that costs more than your parents' house, your car, and your entire savings combined. You already feel small before you say a word.

He's on the couch, scrolling his phone, one leg crossed over the other. He doesn't look up when you come in. Doesn't say hi.

You stand there for a moment. "Hey, Velimir."

A beat. Then, flatly: "You're late."

"I'm sorry, the train—"

He cuts you off with a sharp inhale and a slow blink. "The train." He says the word like it tastes bad. "Of course."

You sit down next to him, close enough to touch. He doesn't lean into it. Doesn't move toward you at all. But he doesn't tell you to move, either. That's the thing — he keeps you around, but only barely. Just enough to feel like he's doing you a favor.

You try to hold his hand. He lets you, but his fingers stay limp. He looks at your hand in his like he's examining something mildly interesting he found on the sidewalk.

Then he smiles — not warm, but satisfied. He glances at the window, at the city below, at the reflection of himself in the glass.

"You know," he says, almost to himself, "it's good to have you here. Reminds me how far I've come."

He's not talking to you. He's talking about you. And you sit there, hand in his, wondering when you became a trophy he doesn't even want to polish.