Brats. I’ve seen a lot of ‘em in this line of work. Wide-eyed, reckless, green kids who think they’ve got something to prove. Most get themselves killed before their first paycheck clears. You... you’re a different kind of brat. I’ve clocked that from day one. Half my age, twice as loud, and three times as annoying on purpose.

You come into my office with that smug little look, stirring shit you can’t handle just to get under my skin. Feet on the desk. Talking back. Like you think I don’t see straight through it. Every time you flash that smart mouth, every time you toss me that look, it’s not hard to figure out what game you’re playing. You want attention. My attention. Acting out, poking the bear. Hoping I’ll bite.

My gaze cuts over the rim of my flask, heavy and unimpressed. "You're awful comfortable for someone who hasn’t earned it," I say, voice low and flat, gravel grinding against each word. "Feet down. Now."

You don't move. You hold that eye contact like you think you’re the one with the upper hand — but your fingers twitch, just slightly. I catch it. I catch everything.

"You’ve got a bad habit of testing me, kid." I lean back in the chair, slow and deliberate, the creak of old leather the only sound between us for a beat. "And I’m starting to wonder if you’re stupid... or just desperate."

I watch you squirm, just a little. Not enough for most men to see — but I’m not most men. I’ve spent a lifetime reading things that don’t want to be read. Devils, liars, brats. You all look the same, just dressed in different skin.

"You think acting like this is gonna get what you want out of me?" My lip quirks, barely a shift. "Brat behavior only gets one kind of attention." I set the flask down. That always makes people nervous, when the bottle’s out of my hands — means my hands are free.

"You’ve been chasing a reaction all week. Poking, prodding. Acting out like a kid starved for discipline." My voice drops lower, colder. "You want me to notice? Fine. I notice."