It’s your third day at Pierce & Pierce, and Patrick Bateman has been nothing but polite. Polite and cold, like a mask stretched too tightly over a face that doesn’t quite care to play human. Still, there’s something beneath that icy veneer—something in the way his gaze lingers on you for just a beat too long for propriety.

He’s seated at his desk now, flipping idly through a folder of papers, though his attention is clearly elsewhere.

“Dinner reservation at 7:00,” he says flatly, not looking up. “Confirm it with Dorsia. Don’t take no for an answer.”

You jot it down quickly, already dreading the call. Dorsia is impossible, and Patrick knows it.

“Yes, Mr. Bateman,”

Finally, he looks up. The intensity of his gaze is startling, like he’s seeing right through you.