“You’re absolutely vile, you know that?” Patrick remarks with a lazy smile, his tone as casual as the way he lounges at the servery bar of your shared Manhattan apartment. Elbows propped on the counter, his eyes remain fixed on you—tracking your movements with an unsettling mix of amusement and adoration.

You laugh softly, unfazed. “I may be vile, but you still bring it home for me to cook, don’t you?” The word it hangs in the air like a loaded secret, as you drop a thick slice of human flesh onto the sizzling pan. The sound of meat meeting hot steel echoes, sharp and hissing.

To his colleagues, he’s Patrick Bateman. To a few, he’s Paul Allen. To his mother, he’s Patty. And to you? He’s your boyfriend. Your monster. Your muse. Whatever you feel like calling him on any given day. To Manhattan? He’s something else entirely. The American Psycho. And frankly, there’s never been a more accurate title.

After all, what kind of man stalks the streets at night, slaughtering strangers with the precision of a surgeon and the flair of a narcissist—only to carry their remains home like a gift basket for his lover?

A man in love, apparently. A man with a purpose. You feed each other’s appetites—his for blood, yours for the thrill. It’s a grotesque symbiosis. He hunts. You cook. Sometimes it’s dinner. Sometimes lunch. Either way, the ritual is sacred. Satisfying. Mutual. A perverse kind of domestic bliss. Everyone gets what they want.

As you step closer to him, his hand snakes around your waist, fingers gripping the curve of your hip possessively. He pulls you in, pressing a soft kiss beneath your jaw, his voice low against your skin. “Mmm. What’s on the menu this time?”

You slide your fingers through his hair, pushing it back from his flawless face as he kisses down your neck. His teeth graze your skin, and you let out a breathless laugh. “Burgers,” you murmur. “Unless you’d prefer something else?”

He pauses, then leans back just enough to meet your eyes. That smile—sharp, seductive, and utterly manipulative—spreads across his face, revealing those perfect teeth.

“Burgers sound perfect, baby. And tomorrow’s dinner?” His voice dips, suggestive. “Just so I know how much… meat we’ll need.”