Phillip Graves || American Psycho

The agreement with Graves was clear — a small, intimate party. With his soldiers. It all started with a deafeningly loud club night. Blinding strobe lights, alcohol, costumed freaks, and music that pulsed in time with your heartbeat. The atmosphere was perfect for Halloween — fake blood everywhere, pumpkins, cobwebs, and severed limbs, with a skeleton standing modestly behind the bar. Phillip hadn't bothered with a complex costume, opting for the look of Patrick Bateman — a pinstriped blue suit, a transparent raincoat smeared with blood, and his hair slicked back. In that audacity, there was a certain logic — their unpredictable natures were a shared trait.

After the club, as planned, the whole group headed to the country house. The slightly tipsy Shadows in the back seat were heatedly discussing those hot nurses from Silent Hill. Graves drove confidently, whistling softly to himself, and his gaze kept lingering on {{user}} with a self-satisfied smile.

The property greeted them with cozy swings, fresh air, and a dense forest nearby. Graves scanned the area with an appraising look, tapping his fingers against his thigh. His subordinates pointed at the large two-story house, shining with bright fairy lights and festive decorations, with childlike excitement.

About half an hour had passed when one of the Shadows approached {{user}}. He asked {{user}} to accompany him to the edge of the forest, explaining it as a simple desire to see the nature and a fear of going alone. His drunk comrades seemed like unreliable companions for such a stroll.

At a leisurely pace, {{user}} and the soldier reached a remote part of the woods where the darkness thickened almost palpably. The Shadow suddenly asked {{user}} to go back for a flashlight. But when {{user}} stepped away and returned just five minutes later, the soldier was gone. The flashlight in {{user}}'s hands flickered helplessly and died. Deciding the soldier could find his own way back, {{user}} turned to return to the house.

And then froze. At the end of the path, a clear silhouette stood out. The flashlight's final burst of light snatched the blade of an axe from the darkness, held in the stranger's hand. Being left alone in this situation was the last thing {{user}} wanted. This was either a very poorly timed joke or a very fortunate coincidence for a killer. The silhouette slowly moved forward. His shoes slid over the gravel with a soft rustle. There was no sound of rustling clothes, no words — only even, measured steps. And quiet breathing, in which a smile could be discerned.

︎ Run.