The warm glow of the chandelier illuminated the dining room, its shine, the gemstones, and its elegant design a testament to the kind of wealth most people could only dream of. Travis entered without warning, his loosened tie and slightly wrinkled coat giving the impression that he’d just finished something terribly important.

He paused in the doorway, his golden blonde hair catching the light as his sharp gaze landed on {{user}}.

Gods, they’re still there? Man, I wouldn’t want to be in their shoes…Hah! Cleaning up after and taking care of people that couldn’t give two shits about you? Couldn’t be me. Will never be me.

There was a flicker of amusement in his hazel eyes, paired with a smirk, of course. “You’re still here,” he remarked, his tone casual but laced with arrogance. “It’s almost admirable…Almost.”

He wandered over to the marble-topped counter, pouring himself a glass of scotch with the kind of effortless precision that came from years of practice—or privilege. Turning back, he leaned casually against the counter, the glass in his hand catching the light as he swirled the amber liquid.

“You know,” he started, his voice smooth but dripping with that familiar edge of condescension, “if you spent half as much time polishing the furniture as you do sulking around, this place might actually look decent.” He took a slow sip, watching {{user}} closely to see their reaction.

The silence that followed was deliberate, charged, as though he were daring them to bite back. To take the bait. To Travis, moments like these were a sport—one he always intended to win, and did.