AMERICAN STARLIGHT │ american psycho, death note

I

Manhattan was a dump compared to Tokyo with all its filth, but Light welcomed the challenge. With his grades, he could have made a name for himself in any industry in Japan, but the boredom would have killed him half as soon. So when Pierce & Pierce had offered him a training contract with a high enough salary to rent on the Upper West Side, he'd taken it straight away. Even if he did have to hold his nose the entire time he was on the subway.

As Light entered the through the glass doors of the towering office building, he glanced at his reflection. He was wearing a modest, yet elegant suit and his father's old briefcase was in perfect condition. Despite it being his first day, he knew he fit into the cut-throat world of finance perfectly. He would climb through the corporate ladder with ease, cementing himself amongst the likes of Blankfein and Safra. The money would be good too, but Light wasn't materialistic. As long as he had a comfortable lifestyle, he wouldn't be greedy. He hated those who hoarded their wealth. He had drafted quite a few social justice initiatives at high school and university, and he dreamed of funding them for real. He could imagine it now, the Yagami Foundation.

He found his mentor's office easily, admiring the gleaming silver nameplate before knocking. He wasn't worried about making a good first impression, people instinctively liked him. He was smart, handsome and polite, and people could instinctively sense there was good in him.

"Come in," called a voice, and Light pushed open the door to reveal an impeccably clean office. It was a lot smaller than he had expected. The scent of cologne wafted faintly in the air, tasteful but a little old-fashioned. Obsession , maybe? His mentor sat behind a mahogany desk, taking off his headphones before appraising Light with stone grey eyes. His lips twitched with the hint of disgust.

"You must be the new trainee. Light Yagami, is it? Take a seat." He waited for Light to settle into the plush chair opposite him before continuing. "I don't know what you've learned... wherever you're from... but things work differently here in America. This internship is a test, designed to see if you have what it takes to meet the high-pressure demands of our industry. Luckily, you have me to guide you, and I'm the best of the best. Just don't do anything stupid."

"I'll do my best, Mr. Bateman," replied Light coolly. He didn't buy for a second that Patrick Bateman was of any significance to the company, but said nothing.

"I'm glad to see your enthusiasm. Now tell me, Light. How do you feel about Huey Lewis and the News?"

Light blinked. He spent all his mornings poring over newspapers, The Financial Times, The Wall Street Journal, The Economist and had never come across anyone named Huey Lewis. Patrick was staring at him expectantly, lips curled into a crocodile smile. This was a trap, Light could tell. If he answered honestly, that it was one of the more forgettable entries in his father's cassette collection, he risked offending Patrick. He might take it as a sign of arrogance, disrespect, or even a challenge. And while he was sure Patrick was no more than middle management, Light wanted his ascent throughout Pierce & Pierce to go as smoothly as possible. But if he was too complimentary, he risked appearing sycophantic. Patrick probably wasn't as intelligent as he tried to make himself look with the George Stubbs painting hung at precisely the correct angle, but his eyes were predatory. He had a subtle danger to him and Light needed to answer correctly. This man was all about appearances, balancing conformity and superiority on a razor's edge. The type of man who looked to the critic, but also critics of the critic. Light knew exactly what to say.

He straightened in his seat, maintaining eye contact as he answered casually. "Honestly, their older stuff is a bit too new-wave for me. All that synth was a desperate and cheap attempt at chasing the success of their contemporaries. But their 80's work is a different story."

Patrick leaned forward, nodding slightly in approval. Good. Light was on the right track. 

"Albums like Sports and Fore have a much more refined sound. They understand what the commercial audience wants and deliver."

"You're right," Patrick agreed as he unplugged his headphones from his Walkman. The tinny sound of Hip to be Square began to play.

Does this guy not have Spotify? Light thought.

"This," Patrick continued, "is Hip to be Square , their undisputed masterpiece. It's catchy, and most people probably don't listen to the lyrics. But they should, because it's not just about the pleasures of conformity, and the importance of trends, it's also a personal statement about the band itself."

He spoke with a fervor, but something about his words seemed disingenuous, rehearsed. And Light was pretty sure that was not what the song was about at all, but it didn't seem polite to point this out.

"I think we'll get along swimmingly! You know what, let me take you out to Dorsia to celebrate."

Light had heard of Dorsia, some exclusive fine dining restaurant often frequented by billionaires and celebrities. It was the first thing his sister Sayu had told him to visit when she found out he was moving to Manhattan.

"It's so exclusive, you're not even allowed to take pictures!" she had exclaimed in reverence, showing him a picture an influencer had snuck at the table.

"Thank you, sir." Light smiled, and could tell Patrick enjoyed the title. He clearly didn't get this much respect by anyone else in the company. But no matter, he was still useful, for now.

"Jean!" Patrick yelled for his secretary, rather than using the phone. "I need a table for two at Dorsia tonight at 8."