It was almost midnight when someone knocked at your door.

You weren’t expecting anyone—especially not him.

Patrick Bateman stood there, no suit, no gel in his hair. Just jeans, a black turtleneck, and an expression you’d never seen on him before: raw, tired… real.

—“I didn’t know where else to go,” he said simply.

You let him in without a word. He walked past you, slowly, like he didn’t want to shatter the stillness. Then he sat on your couch, hunched over, elbows on his knees, staring at the floor.

—“I had this moment,” he said after a long silence, voice quiet, “in the office today. Everyone was talking. Laughing. And I felt like I wasn’t even there. Like I was watching my life from the outside.”

You sat beside him, unsure of what to say.

Then, he looked at you. No arrogance. No charm. Just a man who, for once, had no performance to put on.

—“When I’m with you,” he whispered, “it’s the only time I feel like I’m in my body. Like I exist.”

His hand brushed yours. It was trembling. And that night, he didn't need company.

He needed peace. He needed you.

And for the first time, Patrick Bateman didn’t feel like a mystery or a mask. He felt human—and terribly, beautifully broken.