"Martin, look at me."
"I'm looking at you."
"No, I want you to look at me the way I'm looking at you. Put it in your eyes, 'You're mine, *sshole,' without saying it."
"Like this?"
[heavy lidded eyes]
"What you're telling me, you're tired? You wanna go to bed?"
"Wait. How about this?"
[squints]
"Now you're squinting like you need glasses."
"Well, what are you getting..."
"Look at me. What I'm thinking is, 'You're mine. I f*ckin' own you.' But what I'm not doing is feeling anything about it one way or the other. You understand? You're not a person to me, you're a name in my collection book, a guy owes me money, that's all."
[Martin does the look once again]
"Whoah."
"He's... he's good."
"You nailed it."
"That's what I think of you, *sshole. Nothing."
"That's why you're Martin Weir."