Patrick Bateman tapped his fingers rhythmically against the glass of his tumbler, the smooth, cool surface an odd comfort in his grip. The bar was swarming with Wall Street elites, each one a mirror image of himself in some way—though, of course, none as impeccably dressed or as intolerably aware of their own perfection. His Valentino suit was immaculate, its sleek lines hugging his frame with precision, the perfect contrast to his icy expression. He felt the fabric against his skin, the satisfaction of knowing it cost more than most people made in a month.

He sipped his drink, savoring the slow burn as it slid down his throat, but his mind was elsewhere. It always is, isn’t it?

Even as he appeared calm, collected, perhaps even bored, his mind seethed with a hunger that couldn’t be fed here. The noise around him—the hollow laughter, the mindless chatter about stocks and mergers—bored him almost to the point of violence.

They don’t deserve to exist, he thought, a thrill rushing through him. Not like you do, Patrick. They don’t have your sense of style, your refinement, your… taste. He let the word linger in his mind, tasting it almost as much as he tasted the scotch.