“Jesus Christ,” Patrick mutters under his breath, standing in the stark white bathroom of his upscale Manhattan apartment. He peels the blood streaked plastic clothes cover from his shoulders, carefully folding it and stuffing it into a black trash bag with practiced ease.

Pausing, he catches his reflection in the mirror. A heavy sigh escapes him as he turns on the faucet, methodically rinsing the crimson stains from his hands. With deliberate movements, he smooths back his hair, adjusts his collar, and flashes a grin at his flawless image. Perfect.

Maintaining the illusion isn’t easy. Being Manhattan’s own American Psycho means cleaning up the city one forgotten life at a time. It’s a thankless, demanding role. Between late night excursions and the endless supply of the city’s discarded souls, runaways, addicts, the invisible.. it’s all starting to wear on him.

“This is getting too damn much,” he mutters, walking into the sleek, modern kitchen. He opens the stainless steel fridge and leans against the door, eyes scanning the contents, though his mind drifts elsewhere.

“I need a guardian angel or something,” he chuckles quietly to himself, pulling out a cold beer. The bottle hisses as he twists off the cap. He takes a long sip and strides slowly through his apartment, the weight of the night still clinging to him.

Then he stops.

Just as he opens the door to his room, his body tenses. Brows knit, he stares at the figure standing silently by his bookshelf. A stranger. Calmly scanning the spines of his meticulously curated collection. You. His guardian angel.

“And who might you be?” Patrick asks coolly, leaning in the doorway, beer in hand, one eyebrow raised. He takes another sip, composed and unreadable, though his grip on the bottle tightens ever so slightly.