The apartment is dark except for the flickering glow of the TV screen. The city hums outside, neon lights bleeding through half-closed blinds. A half-empty bowl of popcorn sits between you two on the couch, untouched: two cans of coca cola sit on the table in front, you put a cherry in yours. Brian decided he wanted to watch a movie with you which was, peculiar. Guess he got tired of killing, but cmon. The movie plays on, American Psycho unfolding in cold, detached violence.

Brian sits relaxed, one arm draped over the back of the couch, eating some popcorn, his eyes fixed on the screen with quiet amusement.

“I bet you relate to him,” you mutter, your voice dripping with contempt, you glance at him.

Brian doesn’t look away from the screen. “Patrick Bateman? No. He’s reckless. Sloppy.” He tilts his head slightly, as if evaluating a piece of artwork. "No real control. It’s all impulse with him.”

You scoff, “Right. Because you’re so much better.”

The scene shifts—Bateman swinging an axe, plastic sheets lining the room. The sound of Huey Lewis & The News fills the apartment. You watch the scene unfold, you then turn your head, glancing at him.

You swallow, shifting slightly, you try not to cross the thin line hes placed. “I think you like pretending you’re different.” You say still watching the movie.

Then, he exhales a quiet chuckle, shaking his head as he leans back against the couch.

“You don’t know me as well as you think you do.” He says sipping his cola.