American Ultra -

Then the man in the golf visor walked in.

He shuffled to the register. His girlfriend, Phoebe, was waiting in the rusted Toyota Corolla outside, sketching a comic strip about a depressed sloth on her thigh with a ballpoint pen. She was the anchor. The only thing that stopped Mike’s brain from spiraling into a fractal terror about things like "taxes" and "the eventual heat death of the universe."

But he wasn't a machine. He was bleeding. His mind was splitting—the terrified stoner and the cold assassin screaming over control. American Ultra

He smiled. "Technically, I only saved a roller rink."

She cupped his face. "Then don't listen." Then the man in the golf visor walked in

They found Lasseter in the control van. Mike didn't kill her. He sat down across from her, covered in glitter from a shattered disco ball, and said: "You're going to call off the cleanup. You're going to delete every file. And then you're going to forget my name."

She made the call.

Three hours later, they were hiding in the basement of a abandoned roller rink called "Skate Galaxy." Phoebe had duct-taped a spatula to a broom handle as a spear. Mike was pacing, chain-smoking a cigarette he didn't remember lighting.