He always lets you choose first. He already knows what you’ll avoid.

When you land on a tragedy, he settles in with faint approval — posture relaxed, eyes intent. Nuclear disasters, meteor strikes, plague montages… those earn a quiet scoff.

“They’re never accurate,” he mutters, almost bored.

What does hold his attention is the human part: the slow unraveling, the selfish choices, the moment a character realizes the end isn’t dramatic — it’s lonely. He watches those scenes closely, head tilted, like he’s studying a mirror that doesn’t quite reflect him yet.

When the credits roll, he doesn’t comment on the ending. Only asks, casually, “Do you think they deserved it?”

The question lingers longer than the film ever did.