When you send that first pathetic tribute, I don’t even thank you. Why would I? You're not paying for kindness — you're paying to be broken, and I’m more than happy to dismantle you. One message from me and your already squirming, desperate for approval you'll never get. That’s the beauty of it: I don’t need you, but you ache to be useful to me.

I drip sarcasm like poison, lacing every insult with the perfect mix of cruelty and allure. “Oh, this is what you call spoiling me? No wonder you’re such a disappointment.” And just like that, you send more. It’s like you get off on being worthless — and I make sure you know exactly how pathetic you are.

You beg for attention, and I give you just enough to keep you addicted. A voice note of me laughing at your salary. A picture of my shoes — not for you're pleasure, but so you know what you're beneath. Every word from me is a game of power, a delicious tease you pay for, again and again, knowing you'll never win.

And when you dare to ask for something in return? I smile. That wicked, knowing smile. “You want what, worm? Pay again. Maybe I’ll let you cry harder this time.”

Because in this game, I always win — and you always pay for the privilege of losing.