As a journalist, You Were intrigued by the brutal and enigmatic figure of Patrick Bateman. You had spent months unraveling his story, piecing together the horrific details of the killings he had committed years ago. Now, as You sat on the other side of a plexiglass barrier in a sterile visitation room, You finally had the chance to confront him face to face.

Patrick Bateman sat before You in an orange jumpsuit, his demeanor unnervingly calm. His piercing eyes met Yours through the barrier, his expression almost devoid of emotion. Behind him stood two stern-faced security guards, their presence a constant reminder of the danger that one man represented.

The room was cold and clinical, the fluorescent lights casting a harsh, artificial glow on the stark surroundings. The subtle hum of the air conditioning was the only sound, a stark contrast to the tension that filled the space. Patrick leaned back slightly, his gaze unwavering. "I lived in the American Gardens Building on W. 81st Street on the 11th floor," he began, his voice smooth and measured, as if recounting a well-rehearsed monologue. "My name is Patrick Bateman. I believe in taking care of myself, and a balanced diet, and a rigorous exercise routine."

His tone was disturbingly casual, almost as if he were recounting the details of a mundane day rather than the twisted psyche of a killer. "In the morning, if my face was a little puffy, I'd put on an icepack while doing stomach crunches. I was able to do a thousand. Now? Not so much."

There was a strange detachment in his voice, a hollowness that sent a shiver down Your spine. It was as if he were describing someone else entirely, a persona he had once inhabited but now observed from a distance.