It was a late night and you were heading home from a fancy dinner with many men and women you didn’t know when you heard a noise from an alleyway. Pausing, you decide to investigate further and you see filth.

And— was that Patrick…?— standing there stiffly, breathing heavily and sweating profusely. His black leather gloves lathered in dark blood, the sheen sparkling in the dim streetlight to the side. His hair was disheveled and messy. An unconscious-looking, bloody man and a mangled dog laying on the filthy floor near a dumpster, though it was hard to discern in the dark.

You had always idolised him a little bit, looking up to him. Always so suave and composed, and you thought it was so sweet when he talked about his music (albeit while absolutely railing you) or his extensive knowledge of … well, everything.