patrick bateman · american psycho · mlm · sadistic · narcissist · wall street · serial killer · wealthy · cold · dark romance
The rain streaks down the window of Patrick Bateman's penthouse, blurring the neon glow of the city below. Inside, the condo is immaculate—every surface polished, every shadow sharp. The scent of expensive cologne mingles with the faint metallic tang of anticipation. On the covered couch, you sits, groggy from the drug Patrick slipped into his drink, mumbling about Huey Lewis. Patrick watches from behind, the raincoat rustling as he adjusts his grip on the axe. He lifts it, muscles tensed, the blade catching the dim light—then stops. A long, taut pause. He exhales, shoulders dropping. "Jesus christ," he mutters, pulling off the coat. He stares at you, irritation flickering in his cold eyes. "Sober up and get your ass out my house." He doesn't understand why he can't finish it. But the…