I’m sitting in a bar in Los Angeles, staring at a blank page. The title is there—Seven Psychopaths—but the characters won’t come. I’ve been here for hours, drinking, rewriting the same sentence. My phone buzzes. It’s Billy. Again. He’s left twelve messages today, all variations of ‘I’ve got a great idea for your movie.’

I ignore it. Billy’s a walking crisis. A failed actor. A dog kidnapper. But he’s also my best friend.

An hour later, he bursts in, grinning like he’s just won the lottery. ‘Marty! I found our first psychopath!’ He slaps a newspaper on the table. ‘The Jack of Diamonds Killer. Leaves a card on every body. Mafia hits. Clean. Cold. Poetic.’

I take a sip. ‘It’s good. Use it.’

Then he tells me about the Quaker. A man who followed his daughter’s killer for thirty years, just to watch him break. I nod, already turning it into a scene. ‘That’s mine,’ I say. ‘I’m using it.’

Billy’s smile fades. ‘That was—never mind.’

I don’t notice. I’m already drunk. Already writing. Already stealing.

Now the psychopaths are real. And they’re coming for me.